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He'd come up the path seeking forgiveness, only to hear impenetrable, uncomfortable silence. The kind that tears into the soul laying all it's faults to bare at his muddy boots. Every mistake played over and over, every hesitation, every obstacle to allowing himself to be happy pounding in his ears. The forest around him seemed to drip regret in collusion, still bent by the will of the springtime storm that had come through the night before. He had walked to this trail so many times over his broken life, a creek to the ocean as his constant metaphor. In the distance he could hear the falls brighter than ever before. As he walked, the mud started slapping at his boots, and he realized the creek was above it's banks. He turned the corner and touched his face in a gasp. The night's storm had turned his personal, peaceful waterfall into a torrent bursting over the edge. Staring the roaring tempest in the face, the swirling steam of mother nature forcibly replaced the stench of expectations, the roar overwhelming the daggers of doubt and ego. It all became a meditation. He was beyond tears at his point, simply letting the transformed landscape do its work upon him. "In the end only three things matter, " he could hear in his head, "how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of the things not meant for you."  
Today is week 2 of the ‘150-Words-A-Week Club’ – using a “muse” photo as a jumping off point – writers are writing a 150-300 word post about whatever comes to mind. 🙂 This photo is this week’s photo. Come see what other folks are writing about at