There is an aesthetic that calls to me like it is itself alive, echoing in me the bluegreen longing for trees and rivers and vines, and skies clear or storming or starlit. I want to sing the songs, to drum out the rhythms, to dance and run, wild. I want to participate in rituals of the Great Deep Green and the windblown hilltop and the curling river. I want to ingest sacraments that teach me of plants and places near and far, and I want to sit in meditation beneath old trees and side by side with new saplings, and I want to practice tai chi forms in clearings on dewy mornings. I want to meet the gods, I want to laugh and cry with imperfect people, I want to track animals to watch them watch me in return, and I want to forage for herbs and roots and mushrooms that just might be medicines or maybe food. I want to stare into the fire until my thoughts flash with its stories, and I want to puff on pipe smoke to invite the kindred spirits ‘round to listen and tell tales both new and old. I want to fall in love daily as I meet each person like for the first time, and ever and more deeply with my wife and lover in my arms each night as we fall asleep. I want to wake up every morning with joy in my purpose as a healer. I want to wake up each moment, to each moment, more fully, more deeply, with more clarity and compassion. I want to be tattooed with whorls and rings that remind of vines and branches. I want to wear flowing clothes that move in easy time with my steps on the ground. I want to wear nothing at all, under the moonlight, my beard too long and my eyes crazed with a sacred madness. I want the deep bluegreen of the leaves and shadowed places to hum in time with my own heartbeat, and I want the clear sky overhead and the blaze of sunlight pouring down on my face. I want to be alive.