It is cold, though the Sun is high and bright and alive.
I make a nest of small dead twigs and feather sticks, then a teepee of dry fatwood, then a miniature cabin of split birch.

The dog is dressed for the weather.
She lays in the cool grass, majestic, squinting at the sun and looking as though it is all there for her. Maybe it is.
She does not wonder what she ought to be doing.

Steel and flint, and sparks.
The Matryoshka doll of dwellings is progressively inhabited by fire.
Easy.
Patience and action, and thermodynamics.
The rest of life can be easy like this is easy.

If it’s not easy, it’s not time. That’s all.

It’s okay if you don’t know what to do right now.
The wind just blows. It does not worry or wonder.
There is only the doing.

Take a sabbath and a season.
Be still like the winter and wait.
Forced things never work anyhow. They break.
Better to learn how to bend.
Listen. Something bigger will call. You will hear it.
Then you won’t wonder, won’t worry.
You’ll just go.
Easy as falling asleep, as falling in love.
You’ll go because there is only the going.

It’s okay if you don’t know the path.
The path knows you.
If you will only let yourself be known.

You are there, in those moments of brave love when you are a pure true wild animal and the universe rises to meet you where you really are.
You are there, when you let your crazy heart find itself in the Mystery.
You are there, when the seasons of your life are dictated not by fear and shame and obligation, but by the wind and the waves and the way it feels to sit in the cool grass warmed by the fire.