What do a sink, a buoy and a caterpillar have in common? Good question. Perhaps we’ll discover more as we listen.
Bathroom sink: I provide water with the touch of a handle. The Water of Life is just as easy to access, simply turn your attention to The Divine. 
Buoy with napping seals: Come to me and I will give you rest if you feel worn out by swimming in choppy seas. 
Tiger moth caterpillar: I move steadily until I find my next source of food, for I am determined to transform. 
Wood grain eye: The eye of God sees all and loves all. 
Lemons: Isn’t it obvious? Make the most of what you’re given. 
Squid whisk and Starfish tile: Don’t be afraid to feel out of place; you have a divine purpose. 
Carved fish: When you feel stuck in one place, move the mountains around you. 
Conifer buds: Shed the skin of who you were to become the person you now are. 
Remy the dog: When you’re frantic — try to relax — things will more easily shift into place. 
Wood grain eel: Live long and travel, but always return to The Source. 
Clouds and Ocean: We work together in an endless cycle, for we are truly one.
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.
There are little towns that time forgot all over the United States and I’ve been to my share of them. 
This chair is both word- and image-worthy. I have written about it and photographed it many times. Because the chair is perfectly designed and perfectly placed.
Should I face south?
Hmm… it is quite lovely.
What about north, from whence the cold winds blow? 
This wood has seen many years and weathered many storms. Its bark has worn away to reveal complex grains and textures.
Do you ever feel lost? When something—like this furry keychain—is lost in the woods, a passing hiker will put it in a prominent place to be more easily found.
Instead of burying my head in the proverbial sand,
or curling up into a ball to mope,
I can try to connect with the light all around me—even though I seem lost in the shadows.
Feeling broken doesn’t have to be eternal.
I can express my dark feelings safely, perhaps through art or writing, then let them go.
Soon, I may be willing to bud.
Which surely leads to blooming. And fully open, I can more easily be found.
Leaves are falling.
Singly.
Doubly.
In triplets.
Or myriads.
Each leaf dances as it falls. One curves and swirls.
Another sails and gently rocks, wafting down to rest upon the first surface it meets.
I watch a narrow leaf plummet like a diver. Instead of plunging stem first into the river below, it hits a wooden bridge and stops. Its respite is precarious—one gust of wind will send it off the edge.
A rust-colored leaf is bent in upon itself on one side causing it to twirl downwards like a screw. It lands on a wood railing whose knot looks like an eye. The leaf meets they eye’s inscrutable gaze. What transpires is a mystery.
The dancers congregate, communicate, disintegrate as they move to the next stage of their lives: duff, detritus, rich loam for the next generation.
I have never seen wood look so red in the wild. I jump across the stream that enters the beach as a trickling waterfall dropping off the headlands. The water is absolutely clear. I am grateful for that which is still pristine.
A bulb kelp presented on a painterly log resembles a snake eating its tail. It creates a never-ending loop. God, how do I become whole? How do I touch Your Infinity without being consumed?
An ochre stone rests in the groove of driftwood. Help me, God, to rest in Your everlasting arms.
I come across a washed-up tree trunk. On one end I see two “eyes,” one of which is covered by sand. I must first remove the sand from my own eye so I can clearly see how to help remove the speck from another’s eye.
On the other end I see another set of “eyes,” but one of them is just a pucker, as if squinted closed. God, how do I perceive Your depth without both eyes wide open?
Seaweed encircles a log, clasped shut like a necklace. I must allow myself to be embraced by beauty, by God.
I pass a trunk that looks pocked, wounded. God, heal what disfigures me.
Near it, a smooth stick rests against hole-ridden sand. Beach creatures have probably dug these holes to breathe, eat or hide. How do I find holy ground? How do I breathe the breath of Spirit?
A small piece of driftwood has been carved by wind and water. What parts of myself need to be carved away and sent adrift?
As I pass a seaweed pod, I feel its aloneness on the vastness of the beach. And yet, I am never alone.
Friends, family, neighbors, God—they are all with me, supporting me through thick and thin. Holding me up.
Have you ever had to take a walk—due to physical injury or illness—solely in your mind? I have. In fact, I’m doing it right now. I’m remembering a walk I took with my sister back in July.
We were hiking the Mendocino headlands one minute, then winding our way down a steep path to a beach cove the next.
There we were greeted by a seaweed-swathed post, pointing out wonders to behold: a cracked crab shell bespeckled with barnacles, driftwood decorated with fine fringe and ocean-smoothed stones pasted with pretty petals.
We separated, each drawn to marvels that called to us like sirens. A charred knotty log told tales of midnight fires under black, star-studded skies.
A wooden “wing” reminisced about its flight from the forest and long travels at sea. Wild waves from a Pacific storm brought it to rest in this quiet cove.
A massive trunk showed me its grain “fingerprints” that distinguish it from every other tree in existence. Only God can read the topographically textured map of its life and know its essence.
My sister and I joined up again and she showed me a myriad of mussels that resembled small footprints in the sand. It was time to create our own footprints back up the trail. Once we reached the top and looked over the cliff, the entire beach seemed small. Yet we knew it contained the vastness of God’s creation, even in one grain of sand.
The walk didn’t start in a back alley. I was exploring an unfamiliar part of town while my car was in the shop. I meandered down a street, taking in flowers hanging pendulously over fences.
The fences became higher, tighter and more keep-out-ish. A resurrection lily poked its head around the corner as if to say with a wink: Life is still thriving behind closed doors.
Soon I could only see through a few cut holes. Then even the holes were covered over with metal plates. I was now officially in an alley.
Vegetation sprawled against the doors, their peeling paint almost worn away.
Lichen created a textured patina on the weathered planks; locks made me feel like a trespasser.
An old appliance stood like a sentinel, watching my every move. A car seemed as if had been parked and forgotten: weeds grew around its tires.
A vintage truck faced me, headlights staring. Everything in the alley exuded a rough-hewn charm, but was also slightly menacing. Was I welcome or not?
Just then I passed a sky-blue garage with large, double wooden doors. I felt more at ease. The red spray-painted latches appeared almost festive. A car turned into the alley, approaching me. I moved aside. An elderly woman with coiffed white hair and trembling lipstick smiled and waved as she passed. I was welcome, after all.
I walked on the Fox River Trail in Aurora, Illinois for twenty years. 
As far as our need to walk, we were like two peas in a pod—or perhaps more like a snail and a sea urchin. I liked to slowly savor the flora around me, while Jim often felt prickled and needed to tease out the knot of his emotional state with verbal processing. He was constantly wrestling with the big questions of life; we spent most of our time discussing philosophy and spirituality.
His exterior was like a hard mussel shell, tightly sealed. But when he opened himself up, he revealed the delicate nature of his inner life. There were many subtle sides to Jim, as there are to each of us.
I just learned Jim died. A birthday card I sent him was returned, and I immediately knew the reason why. He was not the kind of man who would leave his little home on the Fox River for anything but death.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 