Harmony, contemplation and stillness are more potent and greater than the animated, deafening and self-serving language and cacophony that surrounds us.
There’s an arroyo that cuts through the sands of time just southeast of Tucson, Arizona. Unlike other gorged desert paths in the region, it runs uncommonly straight. In its wake lies a littered trail of uprooted impediments, incapable of withstanding the force of monsoon downpours that pushed them to the wayside.
However, not all is lost. I understand him better now. Ours is a long-standing relationship, a wine metaphorically fermenting in old oak barrels. An aging, ripening liaison meant to be sipped and savored, one memory at a time.