This morning, it's profoundly quiet. Off, some miles from here, I can hear the distant rumbling of a freighter, its deep engines humming; and even now, that is fading. Otherwise, there is the soft murmur of the lightest rippling, a sussurant touch of water touching the shoreline. And beyond that, there is silence. I feel a kind of joy, there, in the profundity -- the quiet, the alone, the quietude in merely listening, slowing far down and contemplating the absence of recognizable sound. And I...

In that exploration, that movement to see, I ponder what I've seen, what I've missed, what I've scene, what I've mist. In my experience -- it's that moment of attention -- what might be sensed in the light, the energy of the encounter, the momentum of vibration. How awake am I -- how attentive, to the now, this instance -- the instant? I can only offer this: I wonder about what is scene, and what is not -- seen? I contemplate the knowing that is there -- what you've touched, that is now...

I reach back, I go back, in recollection. I recall: Notes on a ritual: When I think back, on that day when my father called, to tell me that Matt had been killed - I was standing on the island, looking out in the morning light, to a grouping of stones that stand near my house on the island. I go back. It was just after 7.00am. Now, I live in fear of calls like that, early morning and unexpected rings, the reign of sadness from afar. And it was striking, listening to my father, telling me that...

9. every journey is yet anouther spiral, in the spin of living, yet this whorl keeps turning and we stride inside the whirl of this ever outer arc, that turns in, turns out, unfolding a reel of beauty that is the real explication: that string which is the circle, never finished, that turns outwardly to the opening of the new, this day, the start of our mutual run, at the opening of the year. Beauty, found: hope, new -- 2009. all the best, to you. And yours....

A Love of Wild Trees, the last of the series Meditations on the tree, that is not a tree... And this is the tenth in a series, of ten, from https://tim.girvin.com/Entries/index.php. A pine grove | Decatur Island When I contemplate this series, writing about trees, ten times -- and the reflections that lie there: the time, the places, the travels -- there is one tree that is absent, and comes forth to my mind, and my memory, now. The sense of the grown grove is deep in memory -- but what grove,...

what rises, will fall. as you might know, now, my computer was stolen in the office, yesterday. People all around. In, there, out. Some people saw this person, connected and tried to escort him away -- but he seemed to know a lot about me -- card in hand, P&G connection, etc. But what he did seem to gather was more about what was lying around, and how quickly to improvise a story based on what he found. A good skill, I suppose, that quick-on-your-feet savvy.... But, very bad for me. Days...

In the dark You forget about silence You forget about the deep-silence that happens when all human made things go quiet, and there is no sound, engine made. And when the power went out, as I was working I could hear it draining, all the equipment, shutting down, whining -- to silent. Quiet night, starbright. And you forget about reading in the low light of something lit by fire, as it was so far back in time. Read in, close, to see what is being said. And when what is being told is the nothing...

Contemplating the tree of my dreams... And this is the eighth in a series from https://tim.girvin.com/Entries/index.php. There's one tree that figures repeatedly in my imagination. It's the tree in front of my house on Decatur Island, which is located north of Seattle by about 75 miles. In Seattle, I live in a small condominium that is an old schoolhouse, built in the beginning of the last century. It's called the West Queen Elementary School and it was refurbished for living, decades ago....

Second in the series: Part One Rickjpelleg, first uploaded to en.wikipedia on 20:13, 28 October 2005, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons Isn't it so, that there's a symbol that continuously finds itself representing, to you? The Grand Mosque, Casablanca, Morocco For me, aside from the Raven, it's the knot. And like the one nestled below my neck, above, I've created them, had them made, and worn them for a long time. And I've come in contact with the knot, all over the world. Of course, in...

You just never know. Meditations on exploration and the beauty of being lost, and finding again. As much as you think -- "it will go this way" -- it just might not. And that way that it does go, it seems, just might be the way that it is meant to be. There are paths, that we think we are on, but then again, we might be on another path altogether, that takes a while for us to see, in the midst -- and the mist -- of our travels, where we are going. In finding myself exploring at the edge of...