To my left a baboon barks on a cliff face basking in gold treacle morning light. Straight ahead massive-scale sunshine beams have transformed the Three Rondawels into a surrealistic set for a phenomenal piece of on-going theatre. Far below the Blyde River is His voice as it storms through the canyon and then, simultaneously, also His voice, is the serene, immensely deep and rippleless lake that tugs and draws on the dark, silent place of my soul that is eons old, universal.
My life, all life, is miraculous. I rip out my heart from my chest and offer it in both my uplifted hands - because never was it mine.
This time around my hands will be a faster reacting, more obedient extension of His.
From The Rock - that even this very minute is my foundation, perched anything but precariously over this canyon - I'm going to launch my flight.
Now to simplify further, to travel even lighter, to sleep in the forest with one ear alert.
As my two bare feet toast oh-so-nicely in the morning light.
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