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I had never heard of that term. "Thin Places"; they abounded in the Amazon, right by the river, up on the trees, or on the water, watching the light and the water dance and play and weave an infinite grid of colors, shadows and reflections, a parable to the timeless affair between light and dark. I have also found them in the swamps in Louisiana, in the marshes inhabited only by cranes, turtles and gators, who often startle the peace and crack the bubble of haunted magic the bayou drapes upon the onlooker. Texas also has them, the wild grasses dance and whisper their longing for water, but resign themselves to the caress of the breezes, and then deer and rabbits dart and I realize I'm never really alone. In this House of Love we now live in the Thin Places abound; there is a vortex of serene energy tangible, like a spell, around the Champion Oak that bewitched me from the first day, when I could see myself walking around it, in a labyrinth, leading a queue in silent moving meditation, and there is a special thinness in the forest, where so many trees have fallen, making it look like a battlefield, the thin line between the living and the dead ragged and torn, inviting me to peek in and take back with me the conviction that the choice to live with full commitment and intention entails creating a Thin Space within and without, routinely.