I'm nearing one year of this project, a completely personal endeavor meant to make some of my daily writing and pictures available for later perusal in a digital environment. One of the gifts I've received, and which I cannot hope to adequately repay, is the vocal support from a blessed few people who visit kestrel heart to read my words. Whimsy is a wonderful thing and I've constructed this little enclave after Emerson's inimitable quote I first read in 2000 around the time of the Y2K scare as an undergraduate in south Mississippi, "I would write on the lintels of the door-post, Whim. I hope it is somewhat better than whim at last, but we cannot spend the day in explanation." I did write on the lintels of my doorways much to the chagrin of my mother who helped scrub them off when I moved out after graduating.

On Anima/Soul this week (ps:// there has been some great writing about the intersection of work and jobs and what each means for a healthy life. The question, at root, I think is the same 2500 years after it was first asked in the West (how young is the Western tradition!), how shall we live? kestrel heart is my humble example of work, the work that must be done if it feels as if it must be done. There isn't any money to made from it, it's a sustaining enterprise in other ways, in much more richly rewarding ways than money, in fact. Of course I wish I could trade some of it for food or living expenses or whatever. Perhaps that economy is not so far off. For now though in order to pay my bills I work what amounts to Jody Tishmack's excellent exegesis of drudge, though most people around me would assume what I do is anything but drudgery. kestrel heart itself, my forthcoming work on Utah landscapes, walking, thinking about birds, recognizing deep shamanic impulses within myself, these are the inscrutable vectors of a secret life, my working life. I wish all who read these words find their own satiating working lives and that perhaps, if they're really lucky, that they also someday "pay the bills". 

I wrote this yesterday and it somehow seems appropriate: But now in fading light, the tremolo days come to a close, the night moltens toward its final apogee, the constriction of the hours of seeing, reaching into even the western aspected nooks of held-out hope against the drawing down. The flick of wings whose glint carries off. Even today, in Hell Canyon, with the fog close in and bulging, the tiercel kestrel flushes from his perch on the mute cliffrose above me as if I were somehow an annoyance, enough of a hulking dark shape to want to get deeper into the evening. His long darkly wings fling through space, tail flashes umber, the executioner's cap noticeable even in this white light.