In a swamp, as in meditation, you begin to glimpse how elusive, how inherently insubstantial, how fleeting our thoughts are, our identities. There is magic in this moist world, in how the mind lets go, slips into sleepy water, circles and nuzzles the banks of palmetto and wild iris, how it seeps across dreams, smears them into the upright world, rots the wood of treasure chests, welcomes the body home. Barbara Hurd
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In a swamp, as in meditation, you begin to glimpse how elusive, how inherently insubstantial, how fleeting our thoughts are, our identities. There is magic in this moist world, in how the mind lets go, slips into sleepy water, circles and nuzzles the banks of palmetto and wild iris. What seems so solid and real when we stare at it in daylight becomes so ephemeral and illusory when we look at it in the early evening light. The mind is like a swamp—saturated with wonder and mystery.

Source: Stirring The Mud: On Swamps, Bogs, And Human Imagination

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