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There is a place we used to go every summer, where wind blows off the lake, cooling sun-parched skin from day’s labor, where deer nibble on grass outside your window, where children with toughened feet run gleefully across a stoney beach, anxious for fireworks.

There is a place where an old wooden chair waits for someone to take a seat, drink coffee from a pottery mug, and do nothing else but take in beauty while birds sing love songs, while loons, like airborne sails, billow in the sky, and the air is filled with salty sweetness.

There is a place where the wind begins to feel holy, where worried and wounded is washed with wonder, and you begin to realize the Wind is Holy. Fractured belief is mended, burdens, too long carried, bust up into tiny pieces that scavengers feast on and gulls carry away.

I return to that place in my mind, the place that began to teach me how to take in and receive Beauty.

Now we sit on our porch, sharing an omelet, drinking coffee as Blossom Dearie croons in the background. A soft summer breeze blows. I let the music rest on me. I listen and am carried away.

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