Some evenings,
after days when the world feels like it has poured all of its despair onto you,
when I am awash with burdens that rest atop my body like a burlap of jostling shadows.
I find a place to watch the sunset. I dig my feet into a soil that re-birthed itself a million times over.

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I listen to the sounds of the leaves as they decide whether or not it’s time to descend from their branches. It is hard to describe the comfort one feels when sitting with something you trust will always be there.¬†Something you can count on to remain familiar when all else seems awry.

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How remarkable it is to know that so many have watched the same sunset before you.

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How the wind can carry pollen & drop it somewhere it has never been. How the leaves become the soil that then becomes the leaves again.

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How maybe we are not so different from the leaves. How maybe we are always being reborn to something more beautiful than we once were.

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How maybe that’s what waking up each morning is. A reminder that we are born with the same atoms as every plant, and birds, and mountains, and oceans around us.

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That we don’t really exist in the world.
We are of it.

– Clint Smith