There is no art to wandering. If I have a destination, a plan -- and objective -- I've lost the ability to find serendipity... I search for the Holy Grail of particularity and miss the chalice freely offered, filled full and overwhelming.
Is everything holy? I learn that when the upper limb of a cottonwood tree is cut crosswise, the grain reveals a perfect five-pointed star. The star is understood as a sign of the Great Spirit's presence and the tree's holy nature. Even the breeze blowing through the cottonwood leaves is understood to be its prayer... Who would ever notice, in my busy life, that a star is secreted in a cottonwood tree? It makes me wonder, are there equally hidden depths inside of me?