I look up – when things are – and the sky is a canvas. Clouds hint at what might yet be, and tell stories about where they come from. The landscape – beloved – sits, stately, firm, anchored into the mantle of the earth. Above them – fleeting, incorporeal, un-substantive, spectacular, inspiring clouds. There is a place for being firmly rooted with both feet on the ground. There should also be some plac3e for dreaming, wondering, and speculating a bit. These things are not contrasts – but complementary. There is nothing sadder than a committed, embittered earth-dweller when the heavens are free. Like a child with old eyes, or a madwoman seeing wars in mundane blessings – the philosophy that only one type of life, or experience, or philosophy is valid and fair, robs the free spirit of joy. And life itself – all of it – the peaks and the valleys – dart across the sky as quickly, and insignificant, and soon-to-be-forgotten – as those fluffy clouds.