…why we don’t camp in our backyard…
the Sacred River calls ilg toward lullaby…half-naked i trek toward her, flyrod in hand, tiptoeing toward my Beloved like a secret lover appearing as the sun washes away. inwardly i pray; may ilg not catch anything save for the Go(o)dness which is my River Sister, as sacred to ilg as is the…
i snatched this shot of tonights’ Full Strawberry Moon which immediately reMinds feeble yogi ilg of the drastically short and tragically fragile harvesting season of these high altitudes and of the 10,000 lives that we Human Beings have learned to learn, respect, overc(om)e all which has brought us – you and i – together, Here Now…
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I suppose it’s the sanest part of me that naturally gravitates toward these serrated skylines of granite, sandstone and sun-splintered early morning rapids and ripples. Perhaps the most redeeming quality that can be associated with this incarnation known as ‘ilg’ is that which has been undeniably attuned with Sacred Appreciation to the whirring symphony of hummingbirds, aspens quaking, and splashes of trout surfacing through snowmelt waters…