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  • I awaken to see the gold sunlight streaming into the bedroom, painting a striking picture of shadows and light. One window cast a vivid shadow of a vase and it's flowers on the wall. The other was a fusion of lizard, horse and bare, intricate tree branches ornately dancing across the wall. If I closed my eyes momentarily, the whole scene changed. I watched as the lizard shadow disappeared amongst the trees, the horse was fading and coming back, the flowered vase left the scene entirely, never to return. The sun is always moving across the sky, real flowers are always slowly opening and closing. The hands of the clock are always moving around the face. As a child, I used to stare at the clock to see if I could see the minute hand moving. I never could.
    All this is not new, yet this morning's mural seemed to be reminding me of what we know but lose consciousness of. Nothing is permanent. Wabi Sabi.
    Look in the mirror. I won't go into detail there. For me, a certain comfort is gained by repetition, staying the same. Yet even that can dispel the myth of stability. Living in the same house for thirty years, I can remember running up the stairs, two at a time to answer the door or a child's cry. These days I am using a crutch and the handrail to mount the stairs, one at a time. The hip in my body, once propelling me up trails high in the Rockies, has been replaced by a metal ball and socket. The trees in the front yard, which were then clambering saplings, are now sizable, mature trees, wide enough to tap sap from in the spring.
    Which reminds me, it IS coming. The frozen ground will open up again. Teeny buds of leaves will appear and grow into shady wonders. The frogs will emerge from the mud and sing their ear-piercing choruses. The changes of the seasons will repeat themselves once again. The tide will come back to the shore. Elders will pass and babies will be born. There is some change that is the same.
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