Hiking in Yosemite last week, I couldn't stop thinking about beauty from ashes, and about the story of the Phoenix. I've watched a lot of mistakes turn into beauty lately. Everything smashed on the floor, shattered. But then the rebuilding starts. The bravest choice: to create beauty out of failure. Free of the restrictions of prescribed shape, lives take on an uncensored beauty.
Yosemite rocks make me less afraid of things, perhaps because their permanance has nothing to do with me and my perfection. They have been there so much longer than I have been sweating out my latest problem/failure, and they just don't care. That majestic disinterest is incredibly comforting, somehow.
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