Grasses are becoming green on the edge of the path the dogs and I walk on. The dogwood branches still retain much of their winter blood red because of the cold March we had. Some are starting to turn orange, responding to the warm days from last week. When no-one is around, which is almost always, I reach down and place my hand on the exposed root of the old cottonwood, a ritual I have been doing for 30 years. I envision it as a way to give some of myself to the sacred I have felt there, as well as opening my heart to the mystery and unknown. I suspect there is a long history at that spot because of it's location, at the base of a ridge a few hundred yards from the river.