Musings From The Trail
Here and now it is sunny outside
I chop carrots. Mince garlic.
Heat oil. Salivate.
Inhale the aroma.
Here and now I am sad inside
I grieve. Shed tears
Ponder death.
See pain all around.
Here and now I sit with it all
Breathe pain. Breathe sorrow.
Breathe garlic and sun
Open to life.
There’s a message in the water, they say
Yes! I cry
She says dive in, enjoy
Love your juice
The wet messy wonder
In the flow of life.
There’s emotion in the water, they say
Yes! I cry
All tears and fears
Rage and sorrow
The entire saga is there
Within your flow.
This Earth’s all about the water, they say
Yes! I cry
Whales sing their song
A love for mother ocean
Who birthed you
And flows within still.
You are more water than solid, they say
Yes! I cry
The better to flow
Within, ride ocean’s wave
Connect with mother
Warm wet mama.
Juicy blue.
Yesterday the dogwood tree in my yard was covered with green leaves; this morning all but two low branches are deep maroon. Amazing how fast that shift happened. Autumn has been whispering its way towards Kansas City for weeks. The wild rainstorm yesterday seems to have signaled its official arrival. The air is cooler, crisper today. And I notice leaves turning yellow, orange and maroon everywhere I look. Changes in my personal life are like that; little hints of change and subtle shifts happen that I often miss or ignore. Then, wham, a storm blows through and in the aftermath I look around surprised to see profound changes in myself or those around me.
I took a walk down the creek path this morning. The day is gorgeous; sunny with a cool wind and high wispy clouds in a bright blue sky. Jacket weather is here. Quite a contrast with yesterday’s cold gray skies and hours of torrential downpour. The heavy rains left the creek high, very high. And the storm water has noticeably altered the creek in just one day. In one spot, long hairy orange tree roots dangle in mid-air over the far curve of the creek bank. Yesterday the roots were encased in dirt; today they dangle free and unsupported. I have had days like that – I wake up to discover that the very ground I have been rooted in and attached to is suddenly gone.
Most humans are not very good at handling change and I am no exception. With change comes fear; that feeling of the world shifting out from under me, of dangling in mid-air without support is very scary. Sometimes I get stuck in that state of fear and I start to worry that problems and instability are all I have to look forward to.
I say that I believe in a benevolent God; a God who takes care of the earth and all living creatures; a God who it omnipotent and all-knowing; a God from which all of life flows. And yet when my path gets rough or the world seems dark, I have trouble trusting that God truly does know what she is doing and all is well.
Any change or shift in my life can trigger the fear. The shift can be something as simple as a change in my schedule or diet, or as profound as divorcing my first husband. The size or importance of the shift does not necessarily determine how well I cope with the change. Any shift, big or small, can be difficult.
The trees on the creek bank seemed to handle change better than I normally do. Trees instinctually know to lean away from instability and sink new roots into whatever ground is left to support them. In contrast, I flounder for days, feeling angry and off balance, bemoaning whatever changed in my life. I grieve for the support I lost. I forget to breathe and lean into the support I still have.
Trees have a visceral trust in the Universe or Earth to support them and provide for them no matter what happens. I have trouble trusting in the good of the Universe that profoundly in the midst of change. I get caught up in grieving what I have lost instead of opening to what is now possible. I forget to pray or meditate and I lose my connection to ground.
Faith and trust in the good of God is my ground, the core bedrock that won’t shift out from under me no matter what. For me, faith and trust come from cultivating my internal KNOWING sense of God as good and benevolent rather than mean or indifferent. That loving essence of God is always with me, around me, within me. I sense it when I work with clients, when I pray, when I watch children play, when I hug someone. And yet I also forget it again and again. I lose my connection to God and I flounder.
Buddhism tells me that I suffer when I cling and grasp, when I try to keep things from changing. Nothing is permanent except Buddha or God. And Christianity tells me to build my faith on the rock of Christ. Judaism implores me to trust in the Lord. Peace of mind comes from letting go and trusting that God or Buddha is in charge. Letting go and trusting in God to handle the affairs of the world is the only answer.
I find that I must tend to my trust and faith like a tender young seedling in my garden. My faith needs to soak up the sun of other people’s loving, positive energy. And then I must water it with prayer and meditation; and trust that it already knows how to grow;
I must feed my faith by actively noticing the good in people, the love in the world. Water and feed, water and feed until my tiny bit of faith and trust in the good of God grows stronger, more resilient, more certain. Water and feed my seedling again and again until one day I discover that my seedling has grown bigger and stronger and is deeply rooted in all directions. Then every little shift no longer throws me into doubt and fear. I can be as calm as the trees on the bank of the creek. I can remember that all is well.
The sound of summer is the drone of cicadas rising and falling in the still hot afternoon air. Birds calling evokes spring for me; The “hello, look at me” songs that fill the treetops in April signal to me that spring has really arrived. Autumn is the crunch of dry leaves underfoot on the trail and the rustle of dying leaves overhead. And winter sounds like the relentless north wind, blowing mercilessly through the barren gray tree skeletons on the hill.
Every season has a sound for me. And a different feel in the air. Winter feels like deep, troubled sleep; tossing and turning, looking for quiet repose. Then spring arrives feeling frenetic, busy – as though there is not nearly enough time to get everything done. Summer is sleepy and abundant; the earth is resting joyfully in her aliveness. Autumn comes and I feel a slowing of the pulse as the growing cycle slows down to a whisper.
Autumn is here. Can you hear it?
I lie in bed and listen to the nighttime sounds of the autumn woods; A cricket suddenly playing a violin solo in the silence. A solitary tree frog tentatively adding to the melody. The wind whispering through the leaves overhead. Zen music for my soul.
Cool crispness fills the autumn day. And now a cool and snuggly autumn night stretches before me silent and inviting. A comforter night filled with the scent and feel of my love’s skin on mine. Synching up and exploring the nooks and crannies of each other as the crickets sing.
In the morning, there is mist in the valley. The second time this week. I look out of the kitchen window to discover that the pond no longer exists at the bottom of the hill. It has been swallowed up by a silvery shroud hugging the trees. Not a breath of wind stirs and the morning mist feels sharp and cool in my throat, just as autumn air should feel. I can see my own breath ebb and flow as I stand on the deck straining to see the pond below.
My son chatters away in the dining room right behind me. As I peer out into the clouds, his chatter recedes and fades away. Life is still and utterly serene for a brief time. A little moment of peace in the midst of my morning chaos.
The geese are in a chaos of their own this morning. Honking and flying around the pond and yard. Disturbed, excited – something is up. Is it time to head south? Are southern waters calling to them? I do not hear the call, but I see the geese’s frenzy as they circle.
It must be scary for the young geese to feel the urge to leave and not know where they will end up. Kind of like writing. And once you get there, you cannot remember quite how you managed to do it. Traversing new territory, whether by wing or by pen, must be done on faith. Take a deep breath and start.
One stroke at a time…
Published in “On the Path” November 1999
Green, everywhere green
Falling water cascades
Ripples out anew.
Icy fingers caress
I glide through
Search for other side.
A shiver of fear
I am in the heart
Behind the falling tears.