It never ceases to amaze me how the wet sand will pick up the colors from the sky…
Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.
― Rainer Maria Rilke
The swirls of clouds make for a fantastic sunset this night…One final paragraph of advice: do not burn yourselves out. Be as I am – a reluctant enthusiast….a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much; I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound men and women with their hearts in a safe deposit box, and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this; You will outlive the bastards.
― Edward Abbey
Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8 color boxes, but what you’re really looking for are the 64 color boxes with the sharpeners on the back. I fancy myself to be a 64 color box, though I’ve got a few missing. It’s okay though, because I’ve got some more vibrant colors like periwinkle at my disposal. I have a bit of a problem though in that I can only meet the 8 color boxes. Does anyone else have that problem? I mean there are so many different colors of life, of feeling, of articulation. So when I meet someone who’s an 8 color type…I’m like, hey girl, Magenta! and she’s like, oh, you mean purple! and she goes off on her purple thing, and I’m like, no I want Magenta!
― John Mayer
A few folks commented about the crowd of coots off in the distance in the previous post, which prompted me to show this closer look at bunches of the coots taken earlier in the day during a hike at New River. As seen near the opposite bank… this bunch was only part of the overall congregation of Coots.
They actually appeared to be having a grand time out there… splashing and playing, though it seemed as though there was always at least some that kept a pretty close eye on me.There’s no pleasure in getting to be an old coot unless you have some fun along the way.
― Gary D. Schmidt, Okay for Now
I caught the sun going down at Floras Lake on the Oregon Coast. There’s a collection of Coots (also known as mudhens) just past the pink reflected glow on the lake, farther out than the four swimming closest to me. They are rather unusual because they don’t seem to be overly shy of humans and seem to like sticking together in large numbers, forming what looks like rafts or large clumps of vegetation off in the distance.Believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Let today be the day you stop being haunted by the ghost of yesterday. Holding a grudge & harboring anger/resentment is poison to the soul. Get even with people…but not those who have hurt us, forget them, instead get even with those who have helped us.
― Steve Maraboli, Life, the Truth, and Being Free
This one took a 4 mile hike to get to, but was well worth the view….
Looking north back toward Bandon
That over these sea pastures, wide rolling watery prairies, and Potters’ Fields of all four continents, the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like some slumberers in their beds; the ever rolling waves but made so by the restlessness.
― Herman Melville, Moby-Dick; or, The Whale