East of a little town and down out past the hedges and burrows and scarlet-veined ivy there are two tobacco brown rivers that slit the soil and as they roll off into a backdrop of innumerable golden bushels of wheat and grain and pebbled soybeans there lies a treasured slice of triangulated land that sways rhythmically and sweet beneath the swarms of larks and teals and red breasted mergansers and they all funnel into a conflux where starlings swirl and trails amalgamate and muddy waters gurgle…
Flow is a dance. It’s not surrender, but a willingness to be vulnerable. When flow happens, you are reaching a prolonged moment of perfection in which you are guided by something larger than logic.
Birds chirped a sinister tune as if they had a recollection of what this place means. Maybe they were evil birds, little demon Nazis’ whose empty souls never seeped outside the barbed wire enclosing the camp.
The eagle flew down to the mouse. Horrified, the mouse surrendered his ball of cheese in which he had spent an entire month to gather. The eagle spoke placidly, “I have not come to eat you, or your cheese. Come fly with me.”
Today, there are many thousands of territories inhabited by indigenous peoples around the world. These territories behold something of immense and unique importance to all humanity.