The photographs are exquisite. Those I can't give you but I can give you some of the accompaniment, Mary's words:
Learn to sing the rivers song,
root yourself in tree wisdom,
study the syntax of stone.
As you enter the wild,
learn its language.
To listen to a raindrop,
or a raven, or a rock
is to reclaim part of your
own untold story.
Water covers 70 percent of the Earth and comprises 70 percent of our bodies. A miraculous inheritance, like looking into the mirror and seeing your mother's eyes.
What fascinates me most about snakes is this: before they shed their skins, their eyes - covered in scales - turn a dull, bluish white so they cannot see clearly. I'm reminded of blind faith, the courage to let go of what no longer serves us, even when we don't have a clear vision of the future.
A friend asks an indigenous elder from the rain forests of South America, "Are you ever lonely?"
"There is no word for loneliness in his language," the translator explains.