How often do I take the time to really look at something? 
Observe the minute details? 
Watch sun penetrate a solid? 
Notice textures? 
Anomalies? 
When I do, I see grasses kissing, 
pitcher plants singing, 
heathers waving 
and magnolias dancing. 
Everything is here — 
is there — 
is everywhere. 
See what is.
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Take a walk with me by reading my daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.
If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.
This past Sunday our Quaker query was: Do I embrace Joy as a companion on my spiritual journey? 
The Meadow Path, another of my daily walks while staying at the Redwoods Monastery, bowled me over 
Who knew the path down to Elk’s beach would be so rife with flowers? 
This is what I shall do:
Love the earth
and all who inhabit it.
Treat everyone with respect
no matter how pliable
or prickly.
Re-examine all I have been taught: spread every questionable idea out on the grass and test it with an eye towards love.
I may find we are all naturally connected—tied together.
For the seeds I sow, I also reap. What I do to others, I do to myself.
Whether via a rustle, swish or murmur, I can hear the grass whispering to me.
Sometimes the murmurings sound like two sides of the same tale,
other times there is a hum of agreement, all voices bent in the same direction.
Often there can be so much chatter
I have a hard time concentrating
on the still, small voice that provides direction.
The voice that tells me I’ve almost reached a place where things begin to make sense: the vantage point.
Prior to this revelation, I always believe I’m stuck in the middle.
That everywhere I turn leads to more of the same.
But as I look more closely I always find differences.
Subtle or
blatant, each point of view was worth the listening.
And when I hear all the perspectives, they become the One Voice. The Voice I constantly yearn to hear.
I have been feeling dizzy, off kilter, half asleep—as if I have been living in a disturbing dream. I was banned from going to my familiar places—the places that make me whole.
Forbidden from seeing the tiny treasures tucked into the headland fields—like California poppy pods and Vinca major buds.
But this week a trail opened that snakes along the cliffs of the Pacific.
And my dizziness left me amid a wash of wild radish and buckhorn plantain.
I witnessed two bugs, covered with pollen, wrestling on the petals of a poppy.
Pondered a piece of nesting material floating atop emerald grasses.
Saw seed heads joined, tangled, entwined.
I am once again completely awake.
Before I arrive at Glass Beach, I walk through a field of tall grass. Pink and green heads dance in the wind. I smell salt—feel the tingle of it against my cheeks.
Atop a headland cliff, I peer out to the Pacific. Three harbor seals reposition themselves on ocean mesas by wriggling. I wriggle, too—down a narrow passage. One side is wallpapered in ice plants.
A single plant has escaped and taken root in a pool of glass and stone.
The beach is strewn with rocks, tumbled glass . . .
and seaweed. One particular stone resembles red, gray and white marble. Could it be? Did someone toss a broken marble urn into the sea years ago?
Red plastic smoothed by the rolling waves seems like an obvious intruder—its porcelain neighbor seems intrinsic—yet both are trash. This spot could be called Trash Beach, not Glass Beach. Yet we, collectively, are fascinated by what the waves have done to our garbage—its transformation.
I see two clumps of seaweed. I am transforming them in my mind as I view them: a fringed red petticoat; a folded crepe drizzled with pureed spinach.
As if on cue, I notice a threadlike bit of seaweed shaped like a young tree. I realize I have the ability to become . . . . But become what? Anything. Anything I set my mind to.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 