Roundness

I find myself returning now and then to the notion of roundness. The pattern of pale green lichen circles on the granite bolders where we walk on our mountain. The stones in our stream.

The arrangement of homes around the dancing grounds of the tribal village on the Sauk river where we used to watch eagles play. The remnants of stone huts in the Citania de Briteiros Celtic ruins of northern Portugal.

The proclivity to make a loop in our travels or thoughts.

The counter-notion of straightness predominant in the destabilizing chaos of industrialized commerce. The impatience, the efficiency, the intolerance and the hard-edged relationships of the not-well-rounded.

Cycles, seasons, the breath of life itself goes round. We pass it around. It comes around. Our first breath, our last breath, our short breath, and the long breath before it begins all over again.