Here in the peaceful forest, Barack Obama and Mitt Romneybot and the MidEast wars and shrill yakkety-yakking of our political nightmare are all very far away. At a quarter to seven it's still completely dark outside, and the totally still.
The forest, frigid and stiff this time of year, with faint mists hanging low among the trunks or caressing the treetops, lives at its slowest pace in December and January. Death comes now to the oldest and weakest plants and animals, which then begin to fertilize the hard earth with their decomposing bodies, providing food for scavengers and laying in future nourishment for the wave of onrushing life due to arrive four months down the road.
No comprehensive knowledge of life is possible without peace, and peace can't visit us if we are never able to slip out of our restraints and escape the tyranny of self.
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