Mount Petit Jean: Cedar Falls

After charging my most faceted crystal in the waterfall, I gaze out across the brim pond which feeds from it. My companions are all alight with Mother Nature’s energy; in the same vein as my crystal they are charged.

I took my seat at a weather-smoothed stone, soft and conforming to my body as though it were made for me just this once. The sun has warmed it slightly, not overheated, but not prolonging the chill of my bath in the falls. I have made my nest.

My view is spectacular above me; thousands of years of this water’s work boring down through stone. The water’s motions meld into shadows and gleams, morphing along the jutting layers in alternating order.

I am suddenly shrouded in mist. The wind must be feeling a little mischievous, breezing in my direction as usual. Patches of green life bloom from portions of the towering, jagged walls encircling this little fairy-like haven. These are the lands spoken of so often in fantasy; they have crossed over into our world today. But my mind wanders, knowing these lands have been here for centuries, thus it is more likely that we have finally made the cross-over.

We are all gathering this pure water in glass vials, sealing them in wax. Memories bottled like potion-ready magic.

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(The last photograph was taken while I was writing this blog into my Spirit Journal)

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