Returning to the place where my very first poem formed in my Spirit. I gaze at the trees’ reflection and the words return:
stretching, never touching, the spindly treetops reach for the clouds
In the rippling water, the treetops dive below the surface brushing the clouds
and in the movement of the river, the branches sway slightly
at peace in their stillness
Penned over 7 years ago, the message of the cross has slowly revealed itself. The vertical length of the tree carrying our prayers to heaven in stillness. The horizontal arms here on this plane must flow and follow Spirit’s leading putting love into action. At the intersection of great suffering and redemption lies transformation.
Now I hear the birds calling my name and I’m crying, enraptured, as I recognize their voice as God’s very own.
Trancelike, I listen to their singing; a sweet lullaby, meant just for me.
I must lie on the frozen, February earth and hidden in secret hardness miraculously melts.
She absorbs it. I come seeking balance of groundedness and passion, hoping it will conjure magical fruits.
Sure, I could beat myself up for all the things I said that make me feel foolish.
Those words can easily be twisted for not-so-good.
But this time, I let it go.
That is not the place I choose to put my energy–
I am enjoying God’s lullaby too much.
where I teach yoga and meditation.
They can’t walk in parks and gaze at skies to receive their forgiveness.
They can’t hear the birdsong lullabies or melt their hardened hearts into Mama earth.
So I enjoy it all the more– for them.
Freedom is not free.
The price we pay is our commitment to attention, our recognition and appreciation of beauty + magic.
I must choose to embrace this freedom in all its forms.
I know my sacred service contribution is being boomeranged back to me in the form of thanksgiving in my heart.
I am full, contented.
And confident that the gifts of contemplation and mindfulness are some of the most valuable, in this day and age
of distraction and addiction.
The soul desires nature’s gospel
and the trees’ reverse breath to cure all our ills should we allow it to inspire us.
‘No guru, no method, no teacher’- the lyrics to Van Morrison’s In the Garden spring forth…
Just you and I, and nature
And the father, in the garden.’