I’ve decided that every Thursday I am going to post something. I was born on a Thursday – hence the names of my Thursday posts – Born on a Thursday. Maybe I’ll turn it into a blog of it’s own, but for now, this is where I’m putting my Thursday musings.

These posts are inspired by artist Charles Kurre, who I met recently on a jaunt out to Scottsdale to look at art. (Coincidentally, it was a Thursday when I met Charles). His art is playful and frenetic – and certainly worth a look—or better yet, a purchase. Check out his blog It Happens Every Tuesday.

Also, poet, adventurer, and teacher Maya Stein puts out a poem every week called Ten-Line Tuesday. She rode her bicycle from Massachusetts to Wisconsin towing along a typewriter for writing adventures with anyone who was willing to type a line or more. She called her journey Type Rider. She even rode her bike through Clinton, NJ – one of my hometown hangout places.

I walked to work today. I’ll ride my bike tomorrow. One of the great things about walking is seeing what you miss while driving. And thinking. I get flooded with ideas when I walk and ride.

I often think of Phoenix as a city that is beautiful at dawn or dusk, when the sky is pink and purple and the softest blue. In the middle of the day, the sun is so bright that it looks blown out by light. I got out of work at two in the afternoon, when “white out” can be intense — it is winter, so it is not as intense as it can be. I managed to find some beauty along the way.

I am fascinated by the trees that have pale green bark here. I walked along a row of them today.

One night, while walking, I revised an affirmation by Catherine Ponder. My affirmation went, “I love the highest and best in all beings; I attract to myself the highest and best in all beings.” It was at night, but as soon as I said those words, the bark on the trees seemed to shimmer and glow.

I felt like the trees and I were recognizing each other with gratitude and appreciation. I could finally “see.”

Sometimes the natural world is the only thing that seems real — while at other times it feels like passing through a three-dimensional postcard. I am neither a smiling waving Pope or a winking Jesus, but I am the only thing that seems to move through space in a non-linear way while time stands still.

If we don’t make our mark, does it mean we don’t exist?