The world is alive. Despite the ice and the rain it remains alive. Touching green moss that feels like carpet on both large and small stones, not knowing if they will shift under my feet, I jump across the creek; a roaring waterfall behind me. The world is alive and ready to withstand my foot print, whether it is light or heavy. My foot print matters as much as the tree that has fallen and been washed away in my absence. Today was good, despite December's traditionally ominous nature. The world is alive with those I am with, jumping and climbing, ascending and descending, in front of me, next to me, behind me; beautiful creatures appreciating the big things that lie hidden under, behind, and between this facade of civilization and man's control. The world is alive; it is more robust than any of us and is willing to destroy us. Despite our adamant attempts to subdue it, it remains patient and willing to ignore us. It takes hold of the land that is it's body, that is it's skin, with scars both natural and man made; cutting and jutting proudly in dirt and mud and rock and wood and green things and continues, always, to grow. The world is alive despite what you or I may believe.