Relaxing through a waxing moon...

  As is often the case while living beyond the connections to cyber stimuli, the opportunity to spend a few hours typing away are rare and far between.  Instead of ether- nets and communication devices, our days are spent reflecting the roots of various edible plants, or deciphering accurately the edibility and toxicity of various mycelium.
  Invariably our day starts upon a routine.  We awake around nine thirty or ten, though often times a bit later as we stay up late around the fire or return late from a "Midnight Run" to the Hot Springs.  We rotate rolls of "Fire Handler", though its usually the one with the most gumption that morning who quickly procures a handful of flammable leaves and proceeds to prepare a small morning fire in which we may be able to percolate some coffee for mutual morning enjoyment.
  Noses in books and sleep still grimy in our eyes, we set forth to explore the strange new area we are within, to decipher its singular beauties.  Each day brings new experiences, waterfalls ranging from voracious and turgid to elegantly powerful, delectable mushroom growing from the loam of the fertile forest floor, salads derived from abundant and tastily yet under looked greenery, not to mention unpredictable and intriguing companionship.
   Endlessly we are slaves to our stomachs, aware of the toll the sun exhorts upon our mortal bodies, of calories burned and the continuous requirement to acquire hydration, and invariably contemplate the menu for the successive meal.   The waters of fate offer us a gift.  "Would you like some chicken as we brought too much to use tonight", a stranger asks us as they prepare to leave the Hot Pools.  "Surely!", we cry, and dine finely that evening, though all evenings offer a delicious treasure trove of nutritional and savory scrumptious delights through Shawna's impressive culinary skills.
  We are warriors of the road, on a self initiated right of passage.  Our war drums are ever ready to unleash their rhythm in a crescendo of fervent palpitations akin to a beating heart as we live in the moment, a nearly real now, that fades into cadence with memories of pure symphony.  Our Fires are small and inviting, as we adhere to an interesting Native American quote we heard on our travels.  "White Man makes a big fire and stands far away, the Indian makes a small fire, and stand close together." 
  Juggling and reading and reaping and seeking, running and laughing along streams that are babbling, dabbling and soaking while sulking and rambling, dreaming a life that truly is living, these are the dreams that we are all feeling.
                                                                                                         Truly yours, Tieas J. Cone