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The spiritual part of our being never says “I can’t.” It simply soaks up everything around it. (Oswald Chambers)

For a while now, I’ve been wondering whether there’s still a book lurking somewhere inside me.

I believe in each of us there are stories. Some good. Some bad.

Some we could share with the world. Some we’d rather keep private.

Every person has a story. Every dog. Every cat. Even the tiny field mouse scurrying through the tall grass.

The trees whisper stories. The great blue heron fishing in the canal.

What goes through that bird brain? The fish he just caught? The big one that got away?

I watch as a giant snowy white egret stalks the canal edge. One pencil thin leg in front of the other. Slowly. Ever so slowly. Practicing his “stand-and-wait” technique. Putting a chameleon to shame.

He stops. Gracefully sinks into a crouch. Practically disappearing into a bundle of feathers and fluff. Even his neck has folded double.

What on earth is he up to? And why do I assume it’s a he?

The long thin beak appears and lashes out. An unsuspecting bug of sorts becomes breakfast.

I have a story there.

If I wrote for children, I’d give him a family. A home. Friends. His perspective on humans. The loons. That heron. The crows. Even the alligators.

And don’t forget Sam, the Living oak. Or Moses the Giant Magnolia Tree.

Maybe. Maybe.

It’s another philosophical day.

I check my drafts folder. It’s a mess. I keep adding.

I’m overwhelmed.

I reach the conclusion that it reads more like a private journal than articles I want to put out there into cyberspace.

Then again, it might be exactly what someone needs.

But to share what I bleed on paper? And risk ridicule?

I think a beach walk is required to get back to my Mary Poppins Persona!

Cyber Hugs All. And more Blessings than you can handle.

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