The view out my window is staggeringly beautiful. We bought this house over thirty years ago for the view. A redwood tree reaches across, so I view some of the roll of the hills through branches and delicate, fern-like needles. The rest is open. I see trees, hill, sky. It is gray today, so I see the landscape as one in its layers, smooth in its binding, ribboned. I would say it is still as a scroll, but now a bird flies by.
I rub this ball of perception around my insides. Without, within!