Sitting, flying, and wandering with Bodhisattva Kingfisher.
All stories are interpretations, and history is no different. Every step I’ve taken in my coming and going within this plane of existence rests upon my own interpretations of experience and the collective interpretations that we call reality. It’s all part of some grand narrative, where we make it up as we go along. We look at what we have done, and what has been done to us, either by the rain, or the trembling Earth, or time, and we arrive, continually, each and every one of us, right here on this stone. Collectively, we’ve all journeyed the same path; individually, we’ve wandered aimlessly and often alone.
The Kingfisher sits in a tree on the other side of Salt Creek from where I am standing, and he is not happy with my presence. I know he’s a he because of the dark blue and v-shaped belt across his chest, and…
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