There is something comforting about splitting wood. Your arms swing in rhythm with your shifting feet and the crack of splintering logs shudders down the ax handle.
And then you miss.
The ax head digs itself into the stump used as a prop. Or gouges a small piece out of the flagstone. Or whiffs completely.
I could make some grand metaphor about life, but I don’t think I need to. Your arms grow tired as you thrust your energy into chopping what once was living. People sometimes look at me a bit funny when they see a small female figure throwing herself into the reduction of a substance.
I smile back. There is too much that is odd and interesting and beautiful in the world to begrudge anyone the curiosity of something unusual.
(Here are some of the photos from the other day’s hike. The featured photo is one angle of my little home.)