tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19165236075337875072024-03-08T02:29:50.273-06:00WildspellWyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.comBlogger195125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-34321750256759848142023-12-24T13:36:00.002-06:002023-12-24T13:36:34.398-06:00Uprooted ...<p>Thank you to the readers who followed my writings on <i>Wildspell. </i>Blogger has been my writing home for many years, but I have finally moved on. My new writing home is <a href="https://carminehazelwood.substack.com/" target="_blank"><i>A dryad's tale </i>on Substack</a>. Subscriptions to that publication are free, so please do check it out, if you feel moved to do so. </p><p>Thank you again for your lovely comments and support. It meant a lot to me. </p><p>Blessings of the wild,</p><p>Carmine </p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-15087087912609803182023-06-21T17:03:00.000-05:002023-06-21T17:03:24.989-05:00Swallowing the sun<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVd7ULcBJRR3hZhYUzgyKArGNLS4Y-9ybJ8d41SQo4QLKG2bYzsJMgRWjoRokjMULyQ88XeJcFYsZHRNq7NlM9NfeDW8zWNvemiFwPPT3CLb717wzQy6GWiIr4eJXzDkPB4YKG6A0v_2xg-A5YgZ9EKA_sH84LlvzRkVoBe8XWWhTYndxml7zC86opF3E/s4032/B9BA9310-D4D9-4406-A179-BFC29E41A2CB.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVd7ULcBJRR3hZhYUzgyKArGNLS4Y-9ybJ8d41SQo4QLKG2bYzsJMgRWjoRokjMULyQ88XeJcFYsZHRNq7NlM9NfeDW8zWNvemiFwPPT3CLb717wzQy6GWiIr4eJXzDkPB4YKG6A0v_2xg-A5YgZ9EKA_sH84LlvzRkVoBe8XWWhTYndxml7zC86opF3E/w480-h640/B9BA9310-D4D9-4406-A179-BFC29E41A2CB.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>Stealing from the chickadees and catbirds, I swallow a handful of velvet-blue June berries. I eat tiny, ripe rubies of strawberries, where they hang in clusters amid leaves curling up under the rays of the mighty midsummer sun. A star god fully visible in the northern sky.</p><p>As I eat this warm fruit I imagine swallowing the sun, and the rain, and the seeds of life shaped to grow more June berries, more strawberries. </p><p>In the midsummer, finches and robins, sparrows and cowbirds unite in scolding roaming cats, and cicadas buzz in chorus for the first time under the sun. </p><p>A marauding, spotted cat with a pink collar has chewed down the catnip I grow for Juniper and Murphy. A judicious application of chicken wire later, we'll see who wins this battle. </p><p>Blooming in my native plant garden: blanket flower, purple prairie clover, hoary vervain, swamp milkweed. Butterfly weed, harebells, anise hyssop, pale purple coneflower. Purple poppy mallow, New Jersey Tea, wild petunia, and Canada anemone. </p><p>Purple coneflower and summertime are just beginning to unfurl their tossing petals. </p><p>I dispense water to their roots, tend to their drooping and injuries. </p><p>I pluck out roaming seedlings, murmur greetings to the plants in their happy, green growth and flowering in the cool of the mornings.</p><p>I took a weeklong naturalist course on the ecoregion where I live, which is called the Big Woods, or alternately, Eastern Broadleaf Forest. </p><p>How would you define a naturalist, I wonder? I think of this as someone who habitually pays attention to the natural world. My textbook on natural history says a naturalist "studies" the natural world, which is more rigorous. </p><p>I like learning my share of "facts." But even more interesting are the facts-as-metaphors. </p><p>For example. Did you know that it is the nature of rock to be cyclic? Not fixed? Rock forms are dynamic, always in process and transition; similar to every other being and landform — but with their own ways of being, of course. </p><p>They are never done changing, as long as the Earth itself is alive. Like us. </p><p>Learning this sort of "fact as truth" makes me feel a kinship with rocks. It is another strand in the web of meaning and mystery that connects us all. It gets at truth in a rather meandering, sideways process; one that creates meaning from the perspective of the whole. </p><p>This is different from one philosophy of science that I hope does not exist anymore — one that destroys or pulls something apart in order to understand how it works. </p><p>One of the instructors in our course joked that their students tend to be either "plant people" or "bird people." I know more about plants than birds, but refuse to be sorted into one category. Birds and other animals, oceans, mountains, deserts, volcanoes, glaciers, stars...all fascinating (though difficult to experience in my own backyard, unlike plants). </p><p>Though an elder woman, I am yet a young naturalist.* </p><p>With new binoculars and the help of the Merlin birding app, I now have a (admittedly slim) chance of seeing woodland or grassland birds when I hear them singing their songs. </p><p>Spotting an Eastern meadowlark or an Ovenbird makes me feel like part of a rarified club, somehow. Though humans have lived with these species for thousands of years, a relatively small percentage of people go out seeking bird sightings. </p><p>It takes patience. With my untrained eye I need to search a while before I find the bird that I hear, so the bird needs to stay in one area so I can zero in. When I do find a bird, I am enchanted to see how they sing with their whole bodies — throats vibrating, beaks open wide. It is somehow relaxing, as if I relax into their wildness, their vibrant, singing presence.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS0R7yjzPzJ2ra3qEaUO7IYpl6hv6QLwIb0ze-F8Z003vbJYFLX1l93F3TAEciA3Eg_eNpJ3QmOYeYXgq1uU3p2wTbO4zEo4RjlI9v6Bru7yXtIY2YznrL88974j29GiJgTOyzrKVKYY8ujkJBTvgW_LGaq6b0t_XqrISsifvGP8qHuWOk7zbVThHyZUM/s4032/91C65C80-CC45-4C94-83B6-2B60D12F8504.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS0R7yjzPzJ2ra3qEaUO7IYpl6hv6QLwIb0ze-F8Z003vbJYFLX1l93F3TAEciA3Eg_eNpJ3QmOYeYXgq1uU3p2wTbO4zEo4RjlI9v6Bru7yXtIY2YznrL88974j29GiJgTOyzrKVKYY8ujkJBTvgW_LGaq6b0t_XqrISsifvGP8qHuWOk7zbVThHyZUM/w480-h640/91C65C80-CC45-4C94-83B6-2B60D12F8504.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><p>Today, on the solstice, it is still early summer here. Yet it feels like July. There is an air quality alert due to ozone and wildfire smoke. We are feeling moderate drought once again. 90-degree temperatures again, with more to follow. Is this summer from now on? Earth is "quite sick" now, reports say.</p><p>They also say it is not too late to heal her. We know what to do. Now, "we" just need the will to do what needs to be done. </p><p>Anyway, as I look at the burgeoning green beings around me on midsummer day, how I wish I could shoot up as they do in the strong sunlight, and make the most of my growing in the short season of sun, blossoming and fruiting. </p><p>This short season we are given on Earth.</p><p>For better or worse, I am a spring-blooming flower. I wither, and always have, in hot weather. How sad though, to only feel I can flourish in the coolness of spring and autumn—two brief seasons. </p><p>I remember too when it was different — not very long ago at all — in this climatescape where I have lived for all my life, and which I struggle to recognize anymore. </p><p>In May, and well into June, the days here were cooler, rainier — so that when midsummer burst upon us, in a dazzle of sun and warm greenness, it felt like the dancing times, the singing times at last were here. </p><p>I miss that time.</p><p>Once, someone told me her one-line poem that she had never told anyone else, and it was, "I feel lonely for when the Earth was okay." </p><p>Then we felt lonely together, and that made it a little less lonely.</p><p>Sadness silences me. Anger silences me. Grief and loss silence me. Loneliness silences me. Fear of sounding ungrateful, whiny, privileged, sorry for myself, negative — all combine into the perfect silencing potion. </p><p>I am writing anyway. I need to do things <i>anyway</i>. Because it is always the right time to be here, and to be who you are, even when it doesn't conform to societal expectations. </p><p>In my effort to acknowledge the positive...yes, it is hot, but not humid. </p><p>There is a breeze. </p><p>It is "date night." </p><p>I am getting together with friends on Friday. </p><p>There is pudding in the refrigerator. </p><p>And, despite all of my laments, it is green and flourishing still, on the summer solstice, here in this tiny, blooming patch of former oak savanna, in the Mississippi River watershed, of the land called Where the Waters Reflect the Clouds.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>*"Though an old man, I am but a young gardener." —Thomas Jefferson</p><p><br /></p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-78173088350569432262023-04-28T16:50:00.002-05:002023-04-29T12:07:21.233-05:00Under water<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJ9pqQr2IWTjVMw2lac8JnrMXotxMbag44Zeve0p7UxSxQj27TzycmyZQR6nrmBNamNHrrkBuTvG_834-8b8Vzf79fbzolLJRCjgYt2hE7U9mxXVoxosnZeVbP2IANsRtvjgpb1q7RDjwQc_7DnXJKsKSDW3yGL3RNA52dj3hGVCitl26BMoZ9PHZ/s4032/D6066FB6-568E-4F93-A396-6B0155ECBC66.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJ9pqQr2IWTjVMw2lac8JnrMXotxMbag44Zeve0p7UxSxQj27TzycmyZQR6nrmBNamNHrrkBuTvG_834-8b8Vzf79fbzolLJRCjgYt2hE7U9mxXVoxosnZeVbP2IANsRtvjgpb1q7RDjwQc_7DnXJKsKSDW3yGL3RNA52dj3hGVCitl26BMoZ9PHZ/w480-h640/D6066FB6-568E-4F93-A396-6B0155ECBC66.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p>Earth, my body.</p><p>Water, my blood.</p><p>Do the tides of our blood surge when the moon is full, and calm at its ebb? My own feels in need of stirring, a tonic of nettle and rainwater blessed by starlight.</p><p>Floods of river water have overtaken the low-lying trails I walk. The cold water at last unlocked from snow and ice, to trickle, wash, rush through the veins of the Earth. </p><p>Kingly trumpeter swans, glowing white pelicans, red-eyed loons, snowy egrets, great blue herons float, stalk, swim and fish where they please, their watery world wide, nearly boundless. </p><p>I watch them, from the landing places.</p><p>Submerge me in the cold water, let me become boundaryless, shapeless, thoughtless; clear as quartz. </p><p>I long with an ancient part of me to drink of wild water, as the animals do, without harm. </p><p>Drink at the holy wells, quench my thirst at any stream, river or lake, replenishing my body and blood with that water. </p><p>How much we have lost, we humans. Quietness. Water we can drink. Wilderness. The abundance of wild creatures. The dark sky and its shimmering constellations of stars. The stories of the land. Traditions, rituals, and even a sense of our place in the universe.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjFhsiyXZ3WHNcUI9dI4A7XTFR_B2SNzYglc3FjOkEantyGr2jy6qDER8CGZu5yY0NQ66le4lGvBo0sHW1nXKHNhZzdMsfhJvEHxmXtQc1se8gU-VkgxwkrAyDudPHr984FNO9nSA80LWnMbwuF4aOFng5YY9v-CrVeJRHDybDo88wzFdAv8k0WiyH/s4032/95476635-38B8-4B6F-83F7-C4F07EC1D534.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjFhsiyXZ3WHNcUI9dI4A7XTFR_B2SNzYglc3FjOkEantyGr2jy6qDER8CGZu5yY0NQ66le4lGvBo0sHW1nXKHNhZzdMsfhJvEHxmXtQc1se8gU-VkgxwkrAyDudPHr984FNO9nSA80LWnMbwuF4aOFng5YY9v-CrVeJRHDybDo88wzFdAv8k0WiyH/w480-h640/95476635-38B8-4B6F-83F7-C4F07EC1D534.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><p>In the wildscapes, and in the garden outside my windows, I hear spring's first white-throated sparrow, a yellow-rumped warbler, a bluebird. </p><p>Chorus frogs in the marsh sing loudly to each other, quickly falling silent at a footfall. </p><p>A robin sits upon her precious eggs, in the nest she built under the eaves, next to the back door. From my point of view it is not the ideal spot, as she is startled off her nest every time we go in or out, but it is the place she chose, so we bow to her wisdom. </p><p>Rain falls softly but steadily today. Colder here than in Quebec, but three degrees warmer than in Reykjavik. I am both restless and listless in the March-like grayness. </p><p>I sipped a cup of nettle tea, downed a spoonful of elderberry syrup. Where is my wild elixir, my Drink Me potion? Within a handful of rain?</p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-12821637069415028742023-03-21T23:00:00.142-05:002023-03-21T23:00:00.159-05:00Spring reveal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK4Bql5iCXc2O7Ro2qZVCbH1-kVE5j_2CM9vvEOaBuygi2ls1cwWKmIn4pLvaXwd5Pkbf3T3p7D-Sz8vgpgHjeGu7ffQ7MPYfNoDN1k3aI5EhRenVDxHFtxa3zCT00Nnqbmj8BA0Zu9FiZE7Au3LLZqrtKrjLxmaClXSXfc258brzwq6lyy-bbMXZS/s4032/2C2F8D39-0E59-40D3-9FF8-29E3F6715DC9.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK4Bql5iCXc2O7Ro2qZVCbH1-kVE5j_2CM9vvEOaBuygi2ls1cwWKmIn4pLvaXwd5Pkbf3T3p7D-Sz8vgpgHjeGu7ffQ7MPYfNoDN1k3aI5EhRenVDxHFtxa3zCT00Nnqbmj8BA0Zu9FiZE7Au3LLZqrtKrjLxmaClXSXfc258brzwq6lyy-bbMXZS/w480-h640/2C2F8D39-0E59-40D3-9FF8-29E3F6715DC9.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><p>Sign of Spring: Finding what was lost. </p><p>The snow that fell ten days ago was wet and heavy, and I worked up a sweat as I shoveled it. Each shovelful had to be lifted to the very top of our four-foot snowbanks — high enough that the shoveled snow would not slide back down onto the sidewalk. </p><p>The temperature hovered around freezing and I was becoming uncomfortably warm. I took off my hat to cool down. Five minutes later, off came my knit mittens. I unzipped my coat and kept shoveling. </p><p>Still too hot, so I peeled off the jacket, and threw that on our front steps with everything else.</p><p>After shoveling, I gathered up my sweaty outwear and took it inside. </p><p>Only, I was a kitten missing a mitten, as I found out the next morning.</p><p>I went outside and scanned the sidewalk and snowbanks. Hmm, a fine job of shoveling, but not a mitten did I glimpse. </p><p>I looked the next day, and the next day, too. How frustrating. I liked those mittens. They are blue-gray and match my jacket. </p><p>I admit, I like certain things to match.</p><p>"Where is it? Who would take one mitten?" I complained to my husband. "One mitten is no use." </p><p>Was it someone who had also lost a right-hand mitten, and had been just waiting to find one to replace it? </p><p>Maybe some Golden Retriever had picked it up, and merrily carried it away as a prize? (You know how they are.) </p><p>Why hadn't I checked that I had everything before I went inside? How could I lose a mitten in my own front yard? I was filled with self-recriminations. Yes, over a mitten. </p><p>After a week of this, I gave up on my dreams of recovering my lost mitten, and ordered a new pair.</p><p>I should have known. Today, Spring pulled back the edges of Winter's icy pantaloons to reveal a very sodden and icy mitten, on the front steps. Where it had sunk into the snowy edges. </p><p>Surprise! Winter trickster strikes again.</p><p>It is only March 21. Winter is not yet done with his surprises. </p><p>People often talk about "balance" on the equinox because for one day, we have equal times of light and dark. Then somehow that all gets mixed up with spring, which is not a balance at all but a transitioning between the season of not-growing and the season of growing. When it comes to seasonal transitions, or life transitions, there is no balance; more of a <i>balancing</i>.</p><p>By no means does spring (or any other season) "begin" at any specific time, much less one day. This is important to note; because if your region is not springlike on the first day of spring, you know it is best not to be literal about these things.</p><p>And also there are clearly more than four seasons. Let's look at the meme lore regarding springtime. The seasons following upon winter that we call "spring" actually progress something like this: "Late first winter." "Fool's spring." "Second winter." "Spring of deception." "Third winter." "Mud season." "Actual spring." </p><p>Fool's spring, the time I suspect we are in right now, is also known as early spring. Plenty of snow on the ground, melting around the edges. See-sawing between fresh, blue days and cold, gray ones. </p><p>The robins, cardinals and red-winged blackbirds, however, are convinced that it is a good-enough spring for them. </p><p>The birds do not wait for a better, springier spring to come along, they get on with it. As always, they know there is no time to waste. Sing now! Mate now! Live now! </p><p>CHERT! CHERT! proclaims the red-winged blackbird beside the marsh. We are alive, and the time is now. </p><p>Needless to say (but I will say it anyway), animals don't have time for bewailing what can't be helped. Instead, they get on with living, regardless of snow, gray skies or less than ideal circumstances. </p><p>What if you thought of <i>any</i> circumstance as ideal? All the circumstances in which you are alive. </p><p>Now, for instance.</p><p>That feels like a winged thought, a way of living fit for birds and humans. Even now, hundreds of miles away, the warblers and monarch butterflies are taking wing, migrating north over this vast continent. </p><p>They're coming, it's happening, just hold on. </p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-22451354776117649472023-03-08T05:00:00.001-06:002023-03-08T05:00:00.174-06:00What once was marshland remembers<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaF5DUDIOCGJF8olRdQ4NpzItRRhbagpsZad6MbRI1c-OGFmC21Me5cKhAFXqgW0AXJGKEN3RR1djN-XteDjvv7dUvIEnMtzi20yNRTDl_e8dTeQ1luWlIAxmA4rpYWL-ayTauYPSxrZUE3QO00Qa6Lt3CK4WiusHCK-tPkJc77OwzowCaUgZTwwIm/s5312/4AF3C778-04F0-4F41-843B-78636DA1D82B.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2988" data-original-width="5312" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaF5DUDIOCGJF8olRdQ4NpzItRRhbagpsZad6MbRI1c-OGFmC21Me5cKhAFXqgW0AXJGKEN3RR1djN-XteDjvv7dUvIEnMtzi20yNRTDl_e8dTeQ1luWlIAxmA4rpYWL-ayTauYPSxrZUE3QO00Qa6Lt3CK4WiusHCK-tPkJc77OwzowCaUgZTwwIm/w640-h360/4AF3C778-04F0-4F41-843B-78636DA1D82B.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />I was born under a Water sign, and live in a watery place encircled by lakes, wetlands, a creek and two rivers. </span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As a young girl I learned how to swim in the waters of this lake. I did not know then that this was, and still is, a sacred place, where wild rice once grew freely, as a gift to all who would gather it. Where wild, shallow marshlands offered a home for herons and a gathering ground for humans who were here long before my ancestors came to this continent. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;">When I was young, mowed turf grass ran down to the lake's barren shores. Once a marsh, with liminal margins, the lake then had an artificially neat edge. It was intended entirely for the use of people, not any wild inhabitants. The plants that had for centuries lived in relationship with the marshy shores were mostly gone. Wildness didn't belong at an urban lake of that era.</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;"> It was at best </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;">an inconvenience, and at worst a threat. </span></span><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;">Fifty years on, frogs at this same lake sing loudly in the springtime. They chorus from dense stands of young willows, habitat for the frogs that also protect the the shoreline from erosion and help filter pollutants from the water. Turtles nest on the sandy beaches. Great blue herons stalk the shoreline under dangling willow fronds, and bald eagles circle high overhead, fishing. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;">Now, the waters are allowed to find the shape they want to become...to flood at will into adjacent marshy pools thick with reeds and frog songs, where red-winged blackbirds can weave their nests amid the deep tangle of cattails and sedges. </span></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;">And fifty years later, I am thankful to have gained some understanding of what a living lake is, and how it may be abused or ignored or cared for and treasured by the people and culture that surround it.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;">When I think about this place, I feel gratitude that these waters and lands that I love were always cared for and honored by the Native peoples. They were still honored and remembered for generations after the people were displaced and robbed of their sacred homelands.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;">I am also thankful for the wise minds in recent history that are allowing wildness to return, even a small degree, to these public lands. Allowing them to be who they are, to do the work they were created to do.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;">I want to remember that these waters, and all waters — even in the midst of a city — are living and ancient, and that they remember.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;">That the land I walk on remembers its ancient past as marshland, savanna, prairie, woodland. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;">That the land also remembers the original peoples who listened to hear its voice...the people with whom it lived in deep, reciprocal relationship for millennia.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;">I want to believe that if I sing to the waters, speak and listen to them, chant my thanks and feel their liquid touch upon my skin, that they may someday carry a memory of this woman, as well.</span></span><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; text-size-adjust: auto;">I want to believe that my deepest self, like the marshlands, will always remember who I am; always return me to my essential wild shape — </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">to the person I was made to be in this life. </span></span></div></div></div>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-8732923364484119352023-01-31T05:00:00.072-06:002023-01-31T09:12:34.794-06:00River of souls<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFod8nRTdnLkc0opcIR9yvv0WAxUiXb3wyk9nm3_4lBgwEWXQli2Hrb-ZZm1Z82Oi-spmGnU27ThJH2ZTmR_AFordOmxn1MI4bsmQW6J21tUPd4LnL7E5inMeAZReYfPpQt2bleN3yL9lDxFoZ1r6Wp_QiMdzS9YPU1S1FZH-zYbm3E-PvFyAxl54w/s4032/20983C3F-F4D7-4EF7-9678-B837474AF6AD.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFod8nRTdnLkc0opcIR9yvv0WAxUiXb3wyk9nm3_4lBgwEWXQli2Hrb-ZZm1Z82Oi-spmGnU27ThJH2ZTmR_AFordOmxn1MI4bsmQW6J21tUPd4LnL7E5inMeAZReYfPpQt2bleN3yL9lDxFoZ1r6Wp_QiMdzS9YPU1S1FZH-zYbm3E-PvFyAxl54w/w640-h480/20983C3F-F4D7-4EF7-9678-B837474AF6AD.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Day 3: Monarchs nectaring at El Rosario Sanctuary</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-size: 14px;"></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I went on pilgrimage to a sacred site. In search of the winter home of my beloved Monarch butterflies.</span></p><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">Monarchs</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">fill me with wonder and delight. They </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">carry happiness on their wings. In summer, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">whenever I glimpse the flash of orange wings through a window, I rush out into the garden, like a child, to greet them. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">Entranced, I watch them circle and float on radiant wings. I pay close attention to which plants they prefer, how long they stay to sip nectar, whether or not they visit the milkweeds. When they leave, if they return.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">Like everything we open our hearts to, the Monarchs speak to us, and teach us. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">Monarchs and their epic journey south speak to the wild, abundant, mysterious presence of life on this being we call Earth. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">Some see Monarchs as a symbol of transformation, and of the soul. </span><span style="color: #262626;">Mexican peoples have believed for centuries that Mo</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">narch butterflies</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;"> represent the souls of their ancestors who are returning to visit them, when they arrive around November 2, on</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;"> Dia de Muertos. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">Children of the sun, they call them. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">A caterpillar miraculously dissolving, then reassembling itself inside the chrysalis to emerge as a butterfly: this is one mystery.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">The </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">billion Monarchs who </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">fly for two months to arrive in the fir forests of </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">Michoacán</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;"> have never been there before. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">Yet, somehow, each migrating generation knows where to fly — how to find this precise place in this wide Earth — where the guardian fir trees protect them from intense heat of the sun, rare snow storms, and cold winds that would otherwise kill them, and end their ancestral migration. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">Another mystery. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">Monarch upon Monarch, mystery upon mystery. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilyY8JFNB2yOsXKdkkbcai-rlAjhSJTPLwca75snOqmDCMLNZ-buNzlTx2gj-tpMznJCOuMAIgFqjSUF6Y_JeLyvCg7k7jmrtNxQeIOMBRM70HAu55L3QASITDnwAAoWeITqToQ6tQ83elVQpamsHFOwHQ4oCV5ZVi-eqG9op3zBvZJ07LSk8Him3J/s4032/D24B9696-9A86-4AB5-B3EB-917805796229.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilyY8JFNB2yOsXKdkkbcai-rlAjhSJTPLwca75snOqmDCMLNZ-buNzlTx2gj-tpMznJCOuMAIgFqjSUF6Y_JeLyvCg7k7jmrtNxQeIOMBRM70HAu55L3QASITDnwAAoWeITqToQ6tQ83elVQpamsHFOwHQ4oCV5ZVi-eqG9op3zBvZJ07LSk8Him3J/w480-h640/D24B9696-9A86-4AB5-B3EB-917805796229.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 1: El Rosario Sanctuary</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">When the sun came out, then we witnessed the most spectacular sight: thousands upon thousands of Monarchs left their trees and took to the air. I no longer had to look at them through binoculars. They were <i>here</i>, zooming just above our heads as we walked down the mountain.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">I walked silently, in a dream, amid the surreal magic of tens of thousands of Monarch butterflies winging around me, pouring down the mountain like a river of joy. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">A river of souls, speaking truths to us.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">Whispering that our souls are alight. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">That our souls co-exist among millions of souls — all striving, all invisibly connected past present and future by a great web of life that flows from and around this planet into the universe. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">That our souls understand mysteries that our minds do not. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">That our lives are ephemeral, yet beautiful beyond words. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmx0BGOHdFR3dr-OqhEZONxaolmXEqLTDw937NuPrAhhx5yipuPksDT4730UzN6pOeAM5UtLw7RjEdahrb4acKqf7g3Xq0EtTfyKmCxjJroY9mFb-hESuXyURok96VLUl-OFdRjRb0S7aLm01PVKFtFLF-RazLVcod85GxHw9gvmYHtWj4ShAI0FPm/s4032/57C684AC-E9AB-4ABA-9261-C89B58DB98EE.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmx0BGOHdFR3dr-OqhEZONxaolmXEqLTDw937NuPrAhhx5yipuPksDT4730UzN6pOeAM5UtLw7RjEdahrb4acKqf7g3Xq0EtTfyKmCxjJroY9mFb-hESuXyURok96VLUl-OFdRjRb0S7aLm01PVKFtFLF-RazLVcod85GxHw9gvmYHtWj4ShAI0FPm/w480-h640/57C684AC-E9AB-4ABA-9261-C89B58DB98EE.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 2: Sierra Chincua Monarch Sanctuary </td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">See now through my eyes...</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">Here, resting inside these many mysteries, millions and millions of Monarchs crowd thickly over the fir needles. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">Large clusters of butterflies cling to branches, literally bending them downward with their collective weight. They roost on trunks among the lichens and mosses like dense ruffles of stiff taffeta. Like rust-colored leaves that never fall to the ground.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">I saw this. This, I saw with my own eyes. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">The sight was so vast, so strange, and beautiful, and astounding, and overwhelming, that it was difficult to encompass the reality, even as I stood looking at it. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">I looked, and looked, and <i>looked</i>, at the millions of Monarchs roosting in the silent, enchanted trees, or flying very high, black against the bright sky, and it <i>still</i> did not seem completely real. </span></p><p><span style="color: #262626;"><span style="background-color: white;">On the third day, when the temperature rose, and the sun came out, that was the day the Monarchs came to greet us, their relatives. Then they began to fly in great numbers, accompanying us along the path, flying just above and alongside us as we walked down the mountain. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #262626;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Are you my soul guide?</i> I whispered as they flew past. Are you the psychopomp on my journey through the Underworld? </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #262626;"><span style="background-color: white;">Then, at last we came to a place where there was an opening, a corridor among the fir trees. And that is where I experienced the wonder, of a river of monarchs, a river of souls: the loveliest sight</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;"> I have ever seen</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">. </span></p><p><br /></p>
<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-permalink="https://www.instagram.com/reel/Cn-KvXop8hR/?utm_source=ig_embed&utm_campaign=loading" data-instgrm-version="14" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border-radius: 3px; border: 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.5) 0px 0px 1px 0px, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.15) 0px 1px 10px 0px; margin: 1px; max-width: 540px; min-width: 326px; padding: 0px; width: calc(100% - 2px);"><div style="padding: 16px;"> <a href="https://www.instagram.com/reel/Cn-KvXop8hR/?utm_source=ig_embed&utm_campaign=loading" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); line-height: 0; padding: 0px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; width: 100%;" target="_blank"> <div style="align-items: center; display: flex; flex-direction: row;"> <div style="background-color: #f4f4f4; border-radius: 50%; flex-grow: 0; height: 40px; margin-right: 14px; width: 40px;"></div> <div style="display: flex; flex-direction: column; flex-grow: 1; justify-content: center;"> <div style="background-color: #f4f4f4; 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line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0px 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/reel/Cn-KvXop8hR/?utm_source=ig_embed&utm_campaign=loading" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A post shared by Carmine (@carmine_wildspell)</a></p></div></blockquote> <script async="" src="//www.instagram.com/embed.js"></script><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-small;">
The journey: I flew across North America, rode on a bus for three hours, up and up into the Sierra Madre Mountains, to the small town of Angangueo. The next day, we took a 20-minute drive in pick-up trucks to the sanctuary entrance, then half-an-hour on horseback up the mountain, followed by a 15-minute hike to the viewing area.
</span>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-45032788262568204892023-01-13T05:00:00.010-06:002023-01-13T05:00:00.184-06:00Iced in<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdLF_M2sHFvhAjZ64Zn-TWuquWLKcow1eP3P5lvTXn6gstFGt1h1789mGteSP8qeXX_JCsYKTRIQTGd90KDo0tjfMMO9Qk0We6vofwhLvbtORkvGNAH5j_XVGFOLwTmt0-q1L0UUJIgU_UgIFjiUcXGHdxYRQU4PS-8PXvEcwWmsL1bXsBVaRlGPn/s3362/61202ADF-B1C8-4337-A4DC-0F3F2A6D8927.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3362" data-original-width="2896" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdLF_M2sHFvhAjZ64Zn-TWuquWLKcow1eP3P5lvTXn6gstFGt1h1789mGteSP8qeXX_JCsYKTRIQTGd90KDo0tjfMMO9Qk0We6vofwhLvbtORkvGNAH5j_XVGFOLwTmt0-q1L0UUJIgU_UgIFjiUcXGHdxYRQU4PS-8PXvEcwWmsL1bXsBVaRlGPn/w552-h640/61202ADF-B1C8-4337-A4DC-0F3F2A6D8927.jpeg" width="552" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Imbolg is coming, they say. And that reminder is a bit encouraging (though in the north, Imbolg is usually months away from spring).</p><p>And yes, it is true that the light rises each day now, minute by quiet minute.</p><p>A sense of <i>day, </i>though, can be buried under an entombing sense of frozenness and coldness. Deep snow. Stillness. Days of white-gray sky that hold us pinned to the ice, as we try to find our footing.</p><p>Waiting. </p><p>I've had enough of <i>resting</i>, now I'm <i>waiting</i>.</p><p>In dim January, and February, and well into March, I must wait for the return of my main source of joy. </p><p>Joy for me is: The wheel of the year, as it turns toward spring, summer, autumn and the winter solstice. </p><p>Feeling the earth stirring around me. Breathing in air laden with precious moisture. Walking the land, hearing wind in the treetops. </p><p>Listening to the liquid language of snowmelt, lapping lakes and trickling rivers. Finding names for wild plants and bird calls as I walk. Smelling the fragrance of sweet prairie grasses. Sun and shadows, mare's tail clouds.</p><p>Though winter scours my spirit every year, it can gift me moments of stunning beauty...like the night I glanced out to find a diamond snow fallen on the roof, silently sparkling with starry flashes of green, silver and blue under the light of a full moon. </p><p>Other days, a quiet beauty flies on black crows' wings as they curve their elegant paths across the sky. </p><p>Or the beautiful way a shadow-black oak catches the low-riding sun in its branches and holds it there, like a glowing orb of ice-pearl. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhckYLfXdZsH4RM8OwP9EdFgudVF37TYTB14OJbx3D2iRmgsXgtpwqCofG6D_HYnCT3I53qMYWZgGdNMrmJAOOKHW2wEkNhe5poy8EaqDl2hk4ZajMmtMFfAxEdaTotsyAMETE7Vrwg4EUvaPipE3rIFmRdc3TE1xtbf8Ss34UJo2lJv0GxeAyg_ATE/s4032/6CD24B8F-EB17-4546-9FA2-C059D298656B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhckYLfXdZsH4RM8OwP9EdFgudVF37TYTB14OJbx3D2iRmgsXgtpwqCofG6D_HYnCT3I53qMYWZgGdNMrmJAOOKHW2wEkNhe5poy8EaqDl2hk4ZajMmtMFfAxEdaTotsyAMETE7Vrwg4EUvaPipE3rIFmRdc3TE1xtbf8Ss34UJo2lJv0GxeAyg_ATE/w480-h640/6CD24B8F-EB17-4546-9FA2-C059D298656B.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIi2fg7MwYIBAloq6R7kpqntZrDh82ETsoikOyPu_m2SJNywQOUHQj_5wWZ6L33xnaeWkhuHTHQmNRnqGG-tt5efKHzpZJXewKu4ESB1OrQ_E1x44JEWtGjLXIUzBXWAZpdrVKwIpe4BnoqVe_44NwCxPnPdOP9D6tz3lgJo5lkhOxAaN58Ai8to70/s4032/448C80E3-E7E9-44EF-8A95-28C054908224.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIi2fg7MwYIBAloq6R7kpqntZrDh82ETsoikOyPu_m2SJNywQOUHQj_5wWZ6L33xnaeWkhuHTHQmNRnqGG-tt5efKHzpZJXewKu4ESB1OrQ_E1x44JEWtGjLXIUzBXWAZpdrVKwIpe4BnoqVe_44NwCxPnPdOP9D6tz3lgJo5lkhOxAaN58Ai8to70/w480-h640/448C80E3-E7E9-44EF-8A95-28C054908224.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><p>Somewhere, in the wilder-lands, I know that the Great Horned Owl already has begun to nest. And the bald eagles by the great river will soon claim their territory and lay their eggs.</p><p>The great movement toward the vernal equinox has begun; as always, so quietly that it is easy to imagine that nothing is changing at all out there, in the snow; or here, in my longing for what is not.</p><p>I may tell myself nothing is changing, but it is. Already, I know what I would like to go toward (sometimes it takes months to figure that out). </p><p>I wrote this list without needing to think: Warblers. Owls. Migration. Hawk Ridge Observatory. Dawn chorus. Dark sky. Milky Way. Writing in new forms. Tent camping. National wildlife refuges. </p><p>More of what brings me joy — for our time is short, and what we love is vast. </p><p>I wish you the same. </p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-42633212356013094052022-12-21T05:00:00.002-06:002022-12-21T05:00:00.184-06:00Midwinter of the spirit<p>When darkness falls, tend to the candle of your spirit.</p><p>On the longest night, sing a song to the sun — that invincible god who burns, yet is not consumed. </p><p>Whisper a blessing to Earth, the Beloved who holds us so close to her, in life and in death. </p><p>Now — at the still point — we remember those who have returned to the earth's womb. </p><p>We wonder what is to come.</p><p>We wait — and while we wait, we dream of the blue snow of deep midwinter, lit by the moon's bright chariot and the shine of ice-bound stars.</p><p>On the longest night, the fire grows low. </p><p>Hold fast to your evergreen hope. Your red-berried joy. That glowing star that lives deep inside of you, even on the coldest, darkest night. </p><p>And do not let go. </p><p><br /></p>
<iframe allow="autoplay; fullscreen; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/82398004?h=b927984091" width="640"></iframe>
<p><a href="https://vimeo.com/82398004">The Longest Night</a> from <a href="https://vimeo.com/ruralpearl">Angie Pickman</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>
Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-13609167720468465162022-12-02T05:00:00.002-06:002022-12-02T10:03:53.540-06:00Once upon a path<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHCnKM11Fq9__fkBzqVIWxzK2wEM-BGxRaz3zPY4PErN93ibtmqMNOjtZ_HdnHEmKyJo3sICuDPDfCdUJlQgKdvwuefoWf7X_6g1pBMJ2COO-C2-ldGdfE27z4yb3HLfr6Baphh0k1fHPfdxAzZkMla7MbrMcWR4SHF2u5gTzL9R5UzmojEbfDwOF/s4032/DD29E4CE-E7B8-4E68-9FA0-BE4B0EE4D182.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHCnKM11Fq9__fkBzqVIWxzK2wEM-BGxRaz3zPY4PErN93ibtmqMNOjtZ_HdnHEmKyJo3sICuDPDfCdUJlQgKdvwuefoWf7X_6g1pBMJ2COO-C2-ldGdfE27z4yb3HLfr6Baphh0k1fHPfdxAzZkMla7MbrMcWR4SHF2u5gTzL9R5UzmojEbfDwOF/w640-h480/DD29E4CE-E7B8-4E68-9FA0-BE4B0EE4D182.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>"The land knows you, even when you are lost." — Robin Wall Kimmerer</p><p><br /></p><p>A curving path — one that I cannot see the end of — is irresistible to me. </p><p>Have you ever noticed how a pathway feels alive? The turns and twists, rise and fall, seem a kind of <i>drawing</i>, a calling-on speech. </p><p><i>Follow, follow,</i> the path whispers, setting the rhythm. And follow I must. One questing step after the other, a bewitched child in a fairytale.</p><p>With our wandering spirits we sense that a pathway is a liminal space...a space of transition from one place to another. A threshold between <i>here</i> and <i>there</i>. </p><p>We walk on, in a state of not-knowing. How far will the path will go? Where will it will take us? When we turn to look back, what will we see?</p><p>Again and again, I make images of paths, roads, ways. Why do they call to me, I wonder, what are they asking? I've not considered before the reason why this motif holds power. But what feels true is that they speak to us as messengers, from the imaginal realm, the unconscious — in the wordless soul language of archetype and symbolism. </p><p>A path reminds us that we are both physical and spiritual Travelers, Explorers and Wayfarers on this journey through life; that we are passing through, transient upon this earth. </p><p>Who can delimit the metaphorical path they are following in life? Or whether it will take them where they imagine they want to go? </p><p>Only in looking back can we begin to have even a hope of tracing the larger trajectory of our winding journey. </p><p>I keep thinking of The Fool tarot card. We set out into the unknown, to learn those lessons we need to learn. </p><p>For imprecise navigators such as I, there is something comforting about a clear and unambiguous path laid out before us. How can you go astray, as long as you keep to the path?</p><p>But on a deeper level, isn't that clarity an illusion? The reason we want to follow the path in the first place is because the mystery beckons to us...precisely because we do <i>not</i> know where it is heading. Nor is any path you step onto ever clear. Because <i>any worthwhile path changes you, as you walk it. </i></p><p>We are like rivers, never carrying the same water (or self) twice. </p><p>The path is a spiral. We revisit the same places, emotions, challenges again and again — but changed. On each turn of the spiral, we bring with us subtle or profound shifts in our perceptions, our understanding, our experience. </p><p>We are in changing relationship to this path, and the relationship goes both ways...we also alter the path through our walking of it, in ways we cannot fully know. All is alive.</p><p>If I let my intuition speak to me of pathways, she says: "The path knows it is being walked, and it wishes for you to walk it."</p><p>The path recognizes you. It invites you on a journey through the inner and outer landscape. This path, this ground that your feet love walking upon, loves you back. </p><p>Walking, I look into the land around me like a mirror, like a book, like a map to myself. Who to be, how to be, where to walk next?</p><p>The land knows who you are, writes Robin Wall Kimmerer. Then perhaps also the path creates who we are? Will I recognize myself anew in its voice?</p><p>I offer a blessing for the path, and for those who walk it — The Travelers, Wayfinders, Seekers and Wanderers:</p><p>May you be lost ... and may you be found. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-57877447381304804512022-10-30T23:30:00.005-05:002022-12-02T10:05:19.779-06:00Into the cauldron<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjF4BANKDZM_maou7ADKKKbRViRTOKQlN9hGp434awuNApMxTbuPmepmbwX_iiwyHqLOwIIw-11ILvQNaGWAOc3_HgHJWg5hYqYW_KOMIDz0Iu9aRLYt6400HO-7WvdmTRpmxobVBDQDTLeLdyGyxIGKuPPK_fJSfHfoeBR_MwzeSODR7BEQTtjqQ/s5312/DCB4E20C-ACFE-4A2F-AB58-2D902D62BF65_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2988" data-original-width="5312" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjF4BANKDZM_maou7ADKKKbRViRTOKQlN9hGp434awuNApMxTbuPmepmbwX_iiwyHqLOwIIw-11ILvQNaGWAOc3_HgHJWg5hYqYW_KOMIDz0Iu9aRLYt6400HO-7WvdmTRpmxobVBDQDTLeLdyGyxIGKuPPK_fJSfHfoeBR_MwzeSODR7BEQTtjqQ/w640-h360/DCB4E20C-ACFE-4A2F-AB58-2D902D62BF65_1_201_a.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><h4 style="text-align: left;">Down, into the cavern, the psyche, the Underworld; so Samhain, and the dark half of the year, spins us down to our essential selves. </h4><div>Asks of us, how will you serve what sleeps now, and will rise again in spring?<p></p><p>Like our plant relatives, like the landscape, like everything that ages, we wither. A part of us sinks down and in, revealing the bones that have lain beneath the long seasons of growing, flowering, fruiting. </p><p>If we have nurtured our gardens, the seeds of another harvest lie scattered over the ground, shaken by the North winds. Waiting in the last, fading light before darkness falls; to be held by the sheltering earth through the long months of ice, snow, killing cold.</p><p>Remember this night: There are witches, and there are witches. </p><p>Beware, sisters, which paths you choose to walk. </p><p>Will it be muttered curses, crabbed thoughts, and casting a metaphorical evil eye? </p><p>Humanity can be so very disappointing, after all, and we may be so frustrated with unfolding realities, that this seductive, thorny path may seem to be the one where we hold more power. I speak from experience.</p><p>Rather, instead of casting maledictions, will we ask ourselves some version of the questions: How can I serve the Earth? How can I serve life? Using the gifts I have been given, what can I do to heal and help, and imagine the world the way it could be? </p><p>How can I make more of what I love, and less of what I do not?</p><p>We all have the other kind within. (A proper cackler, I mean.) Yes, a Crone is <i>meant</i> to be fierce. But, fierce in service of something important, something life-giving, something that matters.</p><p>Wisdom whispers, perhaps we want to call up our most fierce powers to serve that which we love most, and to change that which ruins, harms and destroys. ???</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKa6ZqH0-d1sXrMPJZMS6QS0VxsRyFmvMKhFHio1eXy91APVm6ewV6zrQYfS1g0IE-tGNJB9ptxUpniJGNICVB4mhzpoxdQTrtDXh4hGSpE7eVCwC0Y2_GnMuxSHEBt648_5TQ0F8DnL76LCrUhPTzb6UM1pSVYwtIENQJ6dtR5srgMddD1QDMVQbG/s4032/0CDFA82D-0B1E-4B89-85F8-30AC2815EAD2_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKa6ZqH0-d1sXrMPJZMS6QS0VxsRyFmvMKhFHio1eXy91APVm6ewV6zrQYfS1g0IE-tGNJB9ptxUpniJGNICVB4mhzpoxdQTrtDXh4hGSpE7eVCwC0Y2_GnMuxSHEBt648_5TQ0F8DnL76LCrUhPTzb6UM1pSVYwtIENQJ6dtR5srgMddD1QDMVQbG/w640-h480/0CDFA82D-0B1E-4B89-85F8-30AC2815EAD2_1_201_a.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>Here, let me remind you about the Cailleach — the divine Crone who reigns over winter, beginning as I write, at Samhain. Who shapes mountains with her hammer. A creator and a destroyer, like every crone goddess. A fierce carlin who bestows sovereignty, and, with a fine sense of justice, punishes those who take too many lives of the wild creatures sacred to her.</p><p>Know you that a Crone's eye pierces any disguise or intent. </p><p>She sees clearly, judges sternly but fairly, and — like most old women, and winter itself — does not suffer fools gladly. </p><p>The Crone guides the young. Protects the defenseless. Rights the balance. </p><p>Ever, the Crone <i>serves life</i> (as death also serves life) — which is as it must be, as <i>all</i> of us must do, in order for all of life to flourish once again on this Earth. </p><p>Isn't that what we all long for? For life to flourish once again? Inside ourselves, in our spirits, and flowing outward to heal every inch of this planet?</p><p>Perhaps this is why witching myself feels like beginning to rewild myself. A profound gift as we head into winter, a seed I can hold in my heart, in the darkness. </p><p>We are nurtured by seeking out wild ways of knowing. Feeling into Earth ways, with their vast power to mend our wounded selves and our wounded planet. </p><p>The way I somehow eased into a softness toward my gardens this year, trusting the plants to find their own way, reseed where they will. Giving the plants time and space to do what they know far more than I how to do: express their intelligence, their ways of being. </p><p>This is an Earth way. </p><p>Because our beloved Earth is the opposite of a minimalist. You must scatter millions of seeds, not only one. You must plant endless forests of trees, continents of prairies, a world of oceans. She is brilliantly, magnificently, endlessly, fecund and creative. </p><p>Let us recognize her always in ourselves...and ourselves, always in her. </p><p><br /></p><p>So, on Samhain, there are witches...and there are witches. As we sink down into the mysteries of the Crone's dark womb, here is my spell and blessing...</p><p>May we rest deeply in this cauldron of darkness. </p><p>May we dream of possibilities, as seeds do. </p><p>May we trust in what is rich and strange in ourselves and others. </p><p>May we let the wild reclaim even the smallest inch of our fallow ground ... and slowly, slowly, awaken it to flower again. </p><p> </p></div>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-48146711661125422642022-10-09T05:00:00.002-05:002022-10-09T10:11:35.168-05:00The speaking places<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_c66ITkmjk7BSJHydx9pFBPy5gmUMlp39g7buaTfBmINYxtecGNKhs3fQDW63uRxyoFHWCJ6FzzjCNYxTgpXJ7MMSV5hrsxygtM_IUwJJiHiD3oYg-_1WDoMTvKvu5Q_k2jtWGdis_bYjVsO4YWTIrQ4opsDDB5AmDRlIVfCFJzN40mt6rXXkdDQ/s4032/DFFBFB56-3CA2-41F5-A1ED-AD118D2878C7.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_c66ITkmjk7BSJHydx9pFBPy5gmUMlp39g7buaTfBmINYxtecGNKhs3fQDW63uRxyoFHWCJ6FzzjCNYxTgpXJ7MMSV5hrsxygtM_IUwJJiHiD3oYg-_1WDoMTvKvu5Q_k2jtWGdis_bYjVsO4YWTIrQ4opsDDB5AmDRlIVfCFJzN40mt6rXXkdDQ/w640-h480/DFFBFB56-3CA2-41F5-A1ED-AD118D2878C7.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For me, walking through an oak savanna is like entering another reality. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A heightened, heart-expanding reality, where every being, gesture, movement or sound seems to carry a significance beyond my power to fully understand or express. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUiICjf6Eh9DtKw6VbJpJ9dukKVaWcFGJa8480wy10rlDMZySgwRHJitAzjVu_MGxt_zSoGki6Q4Zb00SHkMrKExcIZ4kuATysybOTbjsfi9jTcl3wyJWYKoMqONp5rvLE3gwZOtpshC4AlmhmA8n2TpzvFkv6nZI28LJj9VHQIMhNnLT54eiKjYvz/s4032/CFA4E4FA-FE82-49EA-98BE-E74A46A58AE7.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUiICjf6Eh9DtKw6VbJpJ9dukKVaWcFGJa8480wy10rlDMZySgwRHJitAzjVu_MGxt_zSoGki6Q4Zb00SHkMrKExcIZ4kuATysybOTbjsfi9jTcl3wyJWYKoMqONp5rvLE3gwZOtpshC4AlmhmA8n2TpzvFkv6nZI28LJj9VHQIMhNnLT54eiKjYvz/w640-h480/CFA4E4FA-FE82-49EA-98BE-E74A46A58AE7.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><i>Come</i>, the oaks call me, <i>before winter is here.</i> </p><p>Always, as I encounter these places that speak so deeply to me, I get a sense that I am walking into an ancient story being told. Witnessing a centuries-old conversation among beings whose sheer presence is so immense it is almost palpable. </p><p>What is it all about, that shift in consciousness? It feels like moving from a reality that feels flat into one with a vast sense of depth and space...as if I am walking into the original template of this world — an archetype, or symbolic landscape, of the unconscious. </p><p>There is a sense of past and present, suspended, existing as one.</p><p>A sense of being one small piece of this place's eternal and mysterious unfolding.</p><p>A sense of being invited into a way of knowing and being without thought.</p><p>A sense of being loved. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9fwfmdiqby8Kh2BexRAZDCVXN8zksb7zxgBB57TGYLdJ-NtPNp_fslXUZq80EQNQ_yxKuyP-s1sY3Th_AsdYVPZJA0vmFFiKAs_K4PCyUnWR7ORFn_P4uDixXe_Q395ZwdaHtt6RRskxa2KAAGidxMPnfqy9rKBeIzT_jAiygohIxypCkw9dHl5B/s4032/89D59C9E-766A-40DA-B878-C734F0C1EA85.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9fwfmdiqby8Kh2BexRAZDCVXN8zksb7zxgBB57TGYLdJ-NtPNp_fslXUZq80EQNQ_yxKuyP-s1sY3Th_AsdYVPZJA0vmFFiKAs_K4PCyUnWR7ORFn_P4uDixXe_Q395ZwdaHtt6RRskxa2KAAGidxMPnfqy9rKBeIzT_jAiygohIxypCkw9dHl5B/w640-h480/89D59C9E-766A-40DA-B878-C734F0C1EA85.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">See the diverse ways they gesture and express themselves: each akin, yet unique. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-XW7DnToEgPf9_oPArtmR_1IK7XcfZ-ad_pJVnnlmYtEsnha80Uy0bd5nExnDq5Cb7YHh8Vn385ulnG3y02rViCbfNTYx-QWlRnH3Zo_pIibVY8w5A_QPkSrYnboAkJXUgkIxdV0OLPMPYxKFDFqeQj8EkWWbNjS2ATwtR44B084BxkA83Pg1lkYx/s4032/588A6EBE-7225-4276-A704-6CF04A07F568.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-XW7DnToEgPf9_oPArtmR_1IK7XcfZ-ad_pJVnnlmYtEsnha80Uy0bd5nExnDq5Cb7YHh8Vn385ulnG3y02rViCbfNTYx-QWlRnH3Zo_pIibVY8w5A_QPkSrYnboAkJXUgkIxdV0OLPMPYxKFDFqeQj8EkWWbNjS2ATwtR44B084BxkA83Pg1lkYx/w640-h480/588A6EBE-7225-4276-A704-6CF04A07F568.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>This is strong magic: the power of a speaking place. </p><p>To sense the sacredness of another, we must carry the sacred within ourselves. Otherwise, how would we recognize it with such certainty? As within, so without.</p><p>Here, the fading embers of my spirit rekindle. Circular thoughts unknot, inner monologues cease. </p><p>I rest, my whole being awakening to the beloved Earth above me, below me, around me, encircling me. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWJizROjMU6wUMxj-nbzojBGKkzp1CMzNlmLqd2924ErDKHO4u8XzzOBkuQmEWdE1aWqeibIop8hE4UBCd5He1Dej6IKNOLv6gaotLAzN2nIYHWvl1H5QiyOGmA2mFuHSOc5aPL_R8UEMtAXhaKCx8h3T05K_idqNnbf7fPhDkkqBm-Jxyb1EjI1nY/s4032/357167C8-78F9-481B-AACB-8831769D8452.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWJizROjMU6wUMxj-nbzojBGKkzp1CMzNlmLqd2924ErDKHO4u8XzzOBkuQmEWdE1aWqeibIop8hE4UBCd5He1Dej6IKNOLv6gaotLAzN2nIYHWvl1H5QiyOGmA2mFuHSOc5aPL_R8UEMtAXhaKCx8h3T05K_idqNnbf7fPhDkkqBm-Jxyb1EjI1nY/w640-h480/357167C8-78F9-481B-AACB-8831769D8452.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfTqDa8ubiBVhNshe2_jTVx9WjhLEAchTOKXXdkM48JzjiGFC70_sLGe6bbMxRVHbhgJNy_PWX6PbBpb9NiK82xOf4dKkHKftGag3iQI0AU1oqMauvYu9zhKlaJFapBcB_ru-fmBesjVafdFas7E7K97CGkIOdQfxFdCyBvSSf6hXWHsQR6bJnU8iG/s4032/D309CC7D-85BB-44CC-B4A0-9C0E244E5465.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfTqDa8ubiBVhNshe2_jTVx9WjhLEAchTOKXXdkM48JzjiGFC70_sLGe6bbMxRVHbhgJNy_PWX6PbBpb9NiK82xOf4dKkHKftGag3iQI0AU1oqMauvYu9zhKlaJFapBcB_ru-fmBesjVafdFas7E7K97CGkIOdQfxFdCyBvSSf6hXWHsQR6bJnU8iG/w640-h480/D309CC7D-85BB-44CC-B4A0-9C0E244E5465.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>John O'Donohue wrote, "The shape of a landscape is an ancient and silent form of consciousness...The earth is full of soul." </p><p>He also wrote, "The silence of landscape conceals vast presence." </p><p>Yes. And the silence of landscape also <i>reveals</i> vast presence; because the silence itself is a kind of voice. </p><p>One we cannot hear with our ears, but sense with our souls. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrIHiquUey-88pyblXzM-hgd1blIIyrYIjzbRET-ZDSQM-2bq8ssLoueSyLLsNgH1HJuDGgn_-rqpS6TFH0byqWeY20zYfa_U5Fyu-ESlU_ITaD-pPOJ09uAe5YAWRTbX-0dSsPOiQ94XfDjrJS73prPuXSMWH9GcY9HQ4_f1D_Apho4023WFVRI86/s4032/6F2DF48A-DE79-4AD6-A3F8-F90A41C455AC.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrIHiquUey-88pyblXzM-hgd1blIIyrYIjzbRET-ZDSQM-2bq8ssLoueSyLLsNgH1HJuDGgn_-rqpS6TFH0byqWeY20zYfa_U5Fyu-ESlU_ITaD-pPOJ09uAe5YAWRTbX-0dSsPOiQ94XfDjrJS73prPuXSMWH9GcY9HQ4_f1D_Apho4023WFVRI86/w640-h480/6F2DF48A-DE79-4AD6-A3F8-F90A41C455AC.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-78144725984691890062022-09-10T05:00:00.001-05:002022-09-10T05:00:00.156-05:00The withered cloak of summer<p>I walk in wide, prairie stillness. </p><p>Summer's end. Crisping under the August sun, whiff of juniper, a pelting of grasshoppers before me, the tidal buzz of cicadas cresting and dying away.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNBue7aMPG9saMumaBA6_o9eHw9o9VVZwluXmOFLz-HAZ5oE4Jvco0TRUEg1OjNTAfkZWS9krcDC-Qb53fLefQ0IvhnOZz946jNJ3vB65P3LTeJp2MV8G0OWdOqiIgYibtZA03rnJVZNZBcJrxXlvXDuoUmQuvGQwhC2VJfYyMMVbuALJwLM286DqP/s4032/85E02FA2-0025-41F5-B0B6-EBAD8A4DF3FC.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNBue7aMPG9saMumaBA6_o9eHw9o9VVZwluXmOFLz-HAZ5oE4Jvco0TRUEg1OjNTAfkZWS9krcDC-Qb53fLefQ0IvhnOZz946jNJ3vB65P3LTeJp2MV8G0OWdOqiIgYibtZA03rnJVZNZBcJrxXlvXDuoUmQuvGQwhC2VJfYyMMVbuALJwLM286DqP/w480-h640/85E02FA2-0025-41F5-B0B6-EBAD8A4DF3FC.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><p>It was a still day, I was sweating, and the sun pounded down. </p><p>The land whispered its song. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsqP9MzR9PjtdxSSppDcbVhp5gplM3KBvE_yM0le7ImsFeCMSwsccj6EpvKqStGbWMXKl7ImoNA59rcA-e38rYMrUpcXzsfq8-adp5W0ueydWHIOOWRm9NQ-VNXQZCj-o4k4jvU84E2sRQYE1vyLqAbwDL3JTgcefzIHh8b3i8SRWBIWNbiHdIC7kQ/s4032/15873B85-5BA2-41B7-9BDE-7F41FF032A14.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsqP9MzR9PjtdxSSppDcbVhp5gplM3KBvE_yM0le7ImsFeCMSwsccj6EpvKqStGbWMXKl7ImoNA59rcA-e38rYMrUpcXzsfq8-adp5W0ueydWHIOOWRm9NQ-VNXQZCj-o4k4jvU84E2sRQYE1vyLqAbwDL3JTgcefzIHh8b3i8SRWBIWNbiHdIC7kQ/w480-h640/15873B85-5BA2-41B7-9BDE-7F41FF032A14.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><p>You know how what you see around you sometimes floods past your skin and your resistance, and you feel larger? Connected. What's out <i>there</i> changes what's in <i>here</i>. </p><p>Other times it feels like you can't get past yourself enough to fully be in another place. </p><p>This was one of those times. The inner disquiet was loud.</p><p>Which is exactly when you most need that connection. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-IwM_XzUDHjXYqO10hJz3RByelrXWeh3WNoh29b3SIsijbfyY9dlMe63uB4-RVCMZNXVLrOJwsFC_WHCulawsi-3PJfL7ufpmxfsTTQRTas7k34jGIiATQYRYx5hm76GB3t7Lw2q_NmvH0BtsCNNG3PrxHTG1LUatGY0oQNvnClAoG37qRbPRa-Wx/s4032/1D28D1C7-54D5-4E2C-913A-C316382D620C.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-IwM_XzUDHjXYqO10hJz3RByelrXWeh3WNoh29b3SIsijbfyY9dlMe63uB4-RVCMZNXVLrOJwsFC_WHCulawsi-3PJfL7ufpmxfsTTQRTas7k34jGIiATQYRYx5hm76GB3t7Lw2q_NmvH0BtsCNNG3PrxHTG1LUatGY0oQNvnClAoG37qRbPRa-Wx/w480-h640/1D28D1C7-54D5-4E2C-913A-C316382D620C.jpeg" title="Wild grapes" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild grapes ripening</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjJBYNHnX_k59Qe57BH5isl6dNn-s9gk_OVnDrIK42uNH7FBq6iAzl63wSjJSVj6R6J9CRNDvz9cOuQ5oQcEbKRrKOBhN3wSNYHGfnc1R3xWR75EFA_0-wJld2f5GHGdKnXif66NHosLwaJvrYVsp6t3EPebwbWUkbbVQiuoAx891rAk65903A0_i/s4032/86716B8E-EA3D-4F65-9C6E-A62AA28EBB2C.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjJBYNHnX_k59Qe57BH5isl6dNn-s9gk_OVnDrIK42uNH7FBq6iAzl63wSjJSVj6R6J9CRNDvz9cOuQ5oQcEbKRrKOBhN3wSNYHGfnc1R3xWR75EFA_0-wJld2f5GHGdKnXif66NHosLwaJvrYVsp6t3EPebwbWUkbbVQiuoAx891rAk65903A0_i/w480-h640/86716B8E-EA3D-4F65-9C6E-A62AA28EBB2C.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Indian grass flowering</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMV_Fdzbrf3dIGrB06ELDu4rafyTg_LhtfYdBO_IfgWIuE5nNmIT6BzD8Y_dL0TYCbos6ax4TfI_jxsO4jKUHQHIqT5AxWiC9lPOp5-nx6FX5mRJKVTjNRdxDWycSjK99TFeLDs0iCiiVJ2AMf7Rt1sKUV7g5hYt5p3vSqBzpd9UnyIJQtcDpHN1Sb/s4032/C38E57E8-3F29-4E09-9168-49AB0F25E850.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMV_Fdzbrf3dIGrB06ELDu4rafyTg_LhtfYdBO_IfgWIuE5nNmIT6BzD8Y_dL0TYCbos6ax4TfI_jxsO4jKUHQHIqT5AxWiC9lPOp5-nx6FX5mRJKVTjNRdxDWycSjK99TFeLDs0iCiiVJ2AMf7Rt1sKUV7g5hYt5p3vSqBzpd9UnyIJQtcDpHN1Sb/w480-h640/C38E57E8-3F29-4E09-9168-49AB0F25E850.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bur oaks and clouds</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Even when you are sweating and hot and feel cranky, you still speak to the cedars, the butterflies, the oaks, particular cloud formations. You try to encourage everyone. You try to learn things, and be a good guest.</p><p>Standing beneath a bur oak tree, I listened to its ripe acorns pelt the ground around me. </p><p>A <a href="https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Field_Sparrow/overview" target="_blank">lovely, clear song</a> I'd never heard before demanded my attention, descending from the hills across the road. A field sparrow, said the Merlin app, only this far north during breeding season. (Now that fledglings have left the nest, tens of millions of birds are migrating south across Minnesota each evening.) </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_d4UvIQmtt4SxuK88O7frl8OuXGl4YfLlyTXQrEj9eEegDhteWO8G9i1BXDcLaky0oEnpTe3uhYhVN-e5htVna56cL7oMClpLY_-rR5Inda-Ur-tv2ch-khy2eR7ommeV1Mx7WYPwCbv4v43hOoiKURwI2ldC_KugqggUJgUCVsnjKwMInxgfLMyS/s4032/D03FB333-BB54-4B9C-9540-996F9B2D9F7C.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_d4UvIQmtt4SxuK88O7frl8OuXGl4YfLlyTXQrEj9eEegDhteWO8G9i1BXDcLaky0oEnpTe3uhYhVN-e5htVna56cL7oMClpLY_-rR5Inda-Ur-tv2ch-khy2eR7ommeV1Mx7WYPwCbv4v43hOoiKURwI2ldC_KugqggUJgUCVsnjKwMInxgfLMyS/w480-h640/D03FB333-BB54-4B9C-9540-996F9B2D9F7C.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goldenrod and pasture thistles</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQRIELgXynd41IkpCo4sVAMDljdiSpDp-O9tzWtGyIqbxHFH36ibMNZmK9-i8eP7X4gyv1TdSjswUhxZvVHJNOge3arNxYu1rRKckybKogmJ4_J_whsbgl2kbOS3S8wyIqJavF2zvuiyIoHETreQHGOHWMShTryzBjQ9Z6OI9S1plWkXOfBHn-D5r1/s4032/F2DB0C14-7A83-4280-B7A9-6D49146B1813.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQRIELgXynd41IkpCo4sVAMDljdiSpDp-O9tzWtGyIqbxHFH36ibMNZmK9-i8eP7X4gyv1TdSjswUhxZvVHJNOge3arNxYu1rRKckybKogmJ4_J_whsbgl2kbOS3S8wyIqJavF2zvuiyIoHETreQHGOHWMShTryzBjQ9Z6OI9S1plWkXOfBHn-D5r1/w480-h640/F2DB0C14-7A83-4280-B7A9-6D49146B1813.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big bluestem, turning copper-carmine-purple</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The point is, the prairie still bloomed. Even in late August. Even in drought. Big bluestem, Indian grass, Rattlesnake master, goldenrod and thistle. Grapevines and gray dogwood branches heavy with fruit, ripening in the sun. </p><p>Prairie plants have taught themselves over millennia how to adapt to adverse conditions, like drought. For instance, they understood it was necessary to grow deep roots, narrow leaves and hairy stems to reduce the evaporation of precious water. </p><p>Even in hard times, the wise plants know how to make medicine, to feed others, to be generous with their gifts. They keep on expressing who they are, however and wherever they can. They devote all their powers to making and remaking this world each day. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ17tG2fJQj3S2Otf8DBd1ss0iSRjcl4blguMtWbSMrM2ZzLTYb1N6WoyS-dbX7FWRE_XlHY09oKG-pCwuGwKUHumF7u_dJBEJuB6AfCVHEOiyLO59wfVR7gh4551IhkJUr9PJLrbl-V5WpYJfAnXVcbgKn3WzNnDgW41vi53TX4FvOw91BmTE3EZq/s4032/93E6AD59-1414-408A-8307-925DC7A23A4A.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ17tG2fJQj3S2Otf8DBd1ss0iSRjcl4blguMtWbSMrM2ZzLTYb1N6WoyS-dbX7FWRE_XlHY09oKG-pCwuGwKUHumF7u_dJBEJuB6AfCVHEOiyLO59wfVR7gh4551IhkJUr9PJLrbl-V5WpYJfAnXVcbgKn3WzNnDgW41vi53TX4FvOw91BmTE3EZq/w640-h480/93E6AD59-1414-408A-8307-925DC7A23A4A.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rattlesnake master, goldenrod, bluestem and Indian grass<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4gQdS5emdl1Yb9bBV9mT6rsCq4D2gtKP1sKCt7WwAwNTb10vetVsJaIlI0N6r27j-J5Si0pKMIRfEsGJRycabPj4WFKTuA5lyYvBKl80FyLbsvCN8zCWPtSlSM2iXaAxAKvtQq35Dsa95UqOOATFIPsJfN3U2IsCRfu4XW0SBSNMklwGi_MDmQ7p/s4032/284D09EE-4F53-416A-AAFB-5C516521425C.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4gQdS5emdl1Yb9bBV9mT6rsCq4D2gtKP1sKCt7WwAwNTb10vetVsJaIlI0N6r27j-J5Si0pKMIRfEsGJRycabPj4WFKTuA5lyYvBKl80FyLbsvCN8zCWPtSlSM2iXaAxAKvtQq35Dsa95UqOOATFIPsJfN3U2IsCRfu4XW0SBSNMklwGi_MDmQ7p/w640-h480/284D09EE-4F53-416A-AAFB-5C516521425C.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Staghorn sumac turning red</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Dq_CSn0m8Zby3KkpXtcP4hK4eDxA9es5eBqvnjmB52LGxNimh3I_boROlMviNX97JnVt0JZINsy_DKkpnUfPPMgqbSQ2ijEnDI7OeiDxgRalCurIIsVjce6l9lXOfVHIhfT9UT7rokywRjAn9D6lUj4-cQxzx7CPRJDP1O_mkwj32L860Bnhi_TD/s4032/342E87FB-120D-407E-9537-4884B07A34AE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Dq_CSn0m8Zby3KkpXtcP4hK4eDxA9es5eBqvnjmB52LGxNimh3I_boROlMviNX97JnVt0JZINsy_DKkpnUfPPMgqbSQ2ijEnDI7OeiDxgRalCurIIsVjce6l9lXOfVHIhfT9UT7rokywRjAn9D6lUj4-cQxzx7CPRJDP1O_mkwj32L860Bnhi_TD/w640-h480/342E87FB-120D-407E-9537-4884B07A34AE.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijX9YZG-vsl4TZvHnKHo-K_EXM-y_bEYj3zE3VemoemQvoKX1jXlE6aCPJfr4k3A42NOKbdxY7ShcqFzc5kvYtsw46cN93lBtxMC16MqrKuf8HZqFg7UI5YSdm4W9MJhPmoX6jbSwvgBVUFdGL_nzMHOrJk9sG79kX8c3Jt2vD7w8g0UdRRjuuiFg8/s4032/3466FA3B-22F4-42A7-B01E-8BEA496C7C66.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijX9YZG-vsl4TZvHnKHo-K_EXM-y_bEYj3zE3VemoemQvoKX1jXlE6aCPJfr4k3A42NOKbdxY7ShcqFzc5kvYtsw46cN93lBtxMC16MqrKuf8HZqFg7UI5YSdm4W9MJhPmoX6jbSwvgBVUFdGL_nzMHOrJk9sG79kX8c3Jt2vD7w8g0UdRRjuuiFg8/w640-h480/3466FA3B-22F4-42A7-B01E-8BEA496C7C66.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Young oak savanna restoration</td></tr></tbody></table><p>But how about much-less-wise people? When we are crispy-leaved, crooked-stemmed, discouraged, maybe the best we can do is to just show up. To be an imperfect witness to that beauty which remains, to what is still right with the world. Maybe that is how some withered humans express who we are in a time of drought. </p><p>Maybe — though we seem to walk in solitude on these journeys, alone with our deadened sense of wonder and fractured praise songs and an unease we cannot escape however far we walk — the world is still listening to us, still teaching us, still inviting us in. Still casting blessings upon us each day. </p><p>So may it be. </p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-1555420144634286022022-08-12T05:00:00.018-05:002022-08-12T05:00:00.171-05:00Uisce beatha<p><span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7HGx0xvylI06DExl4NIGBTBwFd9cPazjyEH5K8JZ5ZCxS8hSvNch_Xn6k-W-DlsxYOD3psyHejR5z7LId0QbcjMUHV-c8MdMGy19giM7CNV64NFXJwn2l4pHqQJnQoagdm07kZyCJvo9X6BNZClZ1g_BbcQ54BfHNxgI6-3fpxptsMpDtyZk9DzfF/s4032/8125AB7E-A56B-4825-B7B0-B5530F769592.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7HGx0xvylI06DExl4NIGBTBwFd9cPazjyEH5K8JZ5ZCxS8hSvNch_Xn6k-W-DlsxYOD3psyHejR5z7LId0QbcjMUHV-c8MdMGy19giM7CNV64NFXJwn2l4pHqQJnQoagdm07kZyCJvo9X6BNZClZ1g_BbcQ54BfHNxgI6-3fpxptsMpDtyZk9DzfF/w480-h640/8125AB7E-A56B-4825-B7B0-B5530F769592.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">purple coneflower</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wonder sometimes whether all the stories and words have run out of me for good. Did I use them up? I feel like I keep trying to refill myself, so I can come alive in some way. </span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-4c5dc52e-7fff-1a64-9cef-e1ef0cc11abd"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The fact is, people are more complex beings than that, more sensitive and mysterious. I can’t just plug in input “x” to get desired output “y.” Feeling sad or empty or disappointed isn’t wrong, or a pathology of some kind; it’s part of life, isn't it? </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOMMzlig18XTfOxcxaWh49SkrWiGAU7dSEfEMXvP9hpuukJ90ltr7KgOxoDRMOYbiTMuldL9ZhAmWpeIOo5QFWvGB5NqWfd53AgNHqxWzx63tEwFuqZv3hxL2KWTXJPHVlUEbe92Mu951CW6PRjMPRMVe0JjKHtiyQxZ03CNX-6oCbv38MhgHKxjgn/s4032/C0FD0264-3B64-42AE-A85E-26259C00A84B.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOMMzlig18XTfOxcxaWh49SkrWiGAU7dSEfEMXvP9hpuukJ90ltr7KgOxoDRMOYbiTMuldL9ZhAmWpeIOo5QFWvGB5NqWfd53AgNHqxWzx63tEwFuqZv3hxL2KWTXJPHVlUEbe92Mu951CW6PRjMPRMVe0JjKHtiyQxZ03CNX-6oCbv38MhgHKxjgn/w480-h640/C0FD0264-3B64-42AE-A85E-26259C00A84B.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">blazingstar</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The earth's life force unfolds all around each day as I garden, walk, breathe. But somehow, energy reserves are still low. (How like a machine I treat myself. Do I allow myself to be tired? Discouraged? Encouraged?)</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have been revisiting my life like a tourist, trying to make sense of it. Making stops at all the sights of the past decades: Writing. Dancing. Costuming. Travel. Languages. Relationships. Therapy. Voluntarism. Work. Do I still like this or that? Does it feel right, interesting, worth doing? Do I feel excited about any of them?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikMn6hIt7k6L-XT9EXG0enggKRIGTsB0qJLGsvUn_Dxf19kGBpV99-loPuruUOyjO7x1RSAlN3S5s2stHaIc0JCKENzrYSGrNVDOaIHQqLLfP9fYHyWh6J3X02UhJ5R3FFDYsbCD3rW3688lwZXAZOCf6BP7tXqMc2uogGrvZ08gh6Sb58RTeK5mhU/s4032/B2B6E9E6-8710-4754-BAF7-89B391810E69.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikMn6hIt7k6L-XT9EXG0enggKRIGTsB0qJLGsvUn_Dxf19kGBpV99-loPuruUOyjO7x1RSAlN3S5s2stHaIc0JCKENzrYSGrNVDOaIHQqLLfP9fYHyWh6J3X02UhJ5R3FFDYsbCD3rW3688lwZXAZOCf6BP7tXqMc2uogGrvZ08gh6Sb58RTeK5mhU/w480-h640/B2B6E9E6-8710-4754-BAF7-89B391810E69.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">meadowsweet</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div><br /></div></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I suspect what I am actually in search of is a sense of purpose. We can all find hundreds of ways to distract ourselves, to spend our days — but are they meaningful? </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I quit my job 18 months ago, what I thought I would be doing now is gardening, reading, traveling and writing. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My status report: </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In our second consecutive summer drought, expanding my garden empire has been a struggle; nevertheless, she persisted. </span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Much reading in hope of awakening my imagination with stories and magic, no noticeable effect. </span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Neither the energy or desire to do much writing or traveling at all. And I feel disappointed about not having that energy and enthusiasm. And a little worried. </span></span></li></ul><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Amid the dry-yet-glowing landscapes of high summer, t<span style="font-family: inherit;">hat is the uncomfortable interior landscape I’m inhabiting.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIe32ZfjxqdT1AvaH0Tx9Yex6dnBMpLX3CV7yA84Uq0NYW7qHUAvzlmneUl6-203lL0tqYGwUkL05gablAJlgVdAjqhkIwUAO5ulnhi6p97c10dqQz3EAuE5zcPJyZ1F0j-UBB5_65z56ovK370i0GNq_iILqrfWuMUcmMV_oYcCJ4Fo7zfIMSz2P/s4032/6084C110-B8F4-4ACF-B385-0B3EC0BD4187.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIe32ZfjxqdT1AvaH0Tx9Yex6dnBMpLX3CV7yA84Uq0NYW7qHUAvzlmneUl6-203lL0tqYGwUkL05gablAJlgVdAjqhkIwUAO5ulnhi6p97c10dqQz3EAuE5zcPJyZ1F0j-UBB5_65z56ovK370i0GNq_iILqrfWuMUcmMV_oYcCJ4Fo7zfIMSz2P/w480-h640/6084C110-B8F4-4ACF-B385-0B3EC0BD4187.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">wild bergamot<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Blessed be those who thirst in spirit. On quest I go, through the withering forest. O let me find the spring where runs the water of life, and let me drink deeply. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><div><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-75043923624403960122022-07-18T05:00:00.001-05:002022-07-18T05:00:00.166-05:00Parable of a fern<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjETCx0MPYbW4mLl6AGiwj-6A0FJU1POkBn6WMtdvLfehCskij6Xy95BZDN9FZXyGnFmHDv-UCGvhT_1odR_JulxiZtojJgQf0C17syu6w_TOeYO18aVcMnkkcDmIFqNxmRsag1bNbkSZ4ZRQVioOzr7vxT7oqbdM8hyoMKLuJIxCehBcbFqqJMchAn/s4032/00CBD485-44F2-44BB-A018-23635542E2E6.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjETCx0MPYbW4mLl6AGiwj-6A0FJU1POkBn6WMtdvLfehCskij6Xy95BZDN9FZXyGnFmHDv-UCGvhT_1odR_JulxiZtojJgQf0C17syu6w_TOeYO18aVcMnkkcDmIFqNxmRsag1bNbkSZ4ZRQVioOzr7vxT7oqbdM8hyoMKLuJIxCehBcbFqqJMchAn/w480-h640/00CBD485-44F2-44BB-A018-23635542E2E6.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br />I felt like this little fern was greeting me. It makes me smile.<p></p><p>When I look at these tender green fronds rising through the grate of the storm sewer, I see how tenacious and full of hope this young plant is. It grows without any worry about whether it "can" grow, or will somebody run over it, or what will it do in winter. </p><p>It does what it knows how to do, what it <i>must</i> do, without thought for the future, like all beings that are wild. </p><p>I think about how akin we are, all living beings. How we recognize our struggle in that of another species. </p><p>The fern is doing no more and no less than what every being tries to do: live, grow and leave seeds behind — whether they be baby ferns or a highly inconspicuous blog. </p><p>Ferns and writers: struggling to flourish under less than ideal conditions. </p><p>Fern strategy says that, if we are open to it, we will find opportunities we did not expect, at times and in places we would never imagine we would, if we are not too proud or too inflexible to inhabit a small, humble niche. </p><p>And our lives are not any less beautiful or worthy or useful because they are quiet, green, underfoot, largely unnoticed. </p><p>Some of us may tell ourselves we can only thrive, or create, or surprise ourselves at all under narrow or idiosyncratic "ideal conditions." </p><p>But what if we don't even know what our own ideal conditions are? What if they are myriad, far more broad and varied than we think? </p><p>And what if even the whole idea of ideal conditions at all is a false construct, just another way to hold ourselves back and to avoid trying at all?</p><p>The parable of the fern encourages me a little bit. It has been a lonely and strange two years. I've been hanging on in my dim niche under the grate. Sometimes a little sunlight peeks in. Sometimes I poke my head out through the bars, and try to remember what it feels like, that green feeling; when life pours through my veins. </p><p>When thought is overtaken by living. </p><p><br /></p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-72765945605334036952022-07-04T13:44:00.003-05:002022-07-04T17:34:56.610-05:00Calling up our power<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still, the witch stirs her cauldron. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hear her call, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Come to me, daughter. Remember your power; the power of women.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She knows this long, old story. Century upon century of women, demonized for exercising their power and autonomy — another chapter in the story of sinful Eve eating the forbidden fruit.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After many hard-fought and all-too-recent gains for women in this falling-apart democracy — the so-called bastion of liberty, the so-called leader of the free world — the radical patriarchy is eager to criminalize a woman’s right to bodily autonomy and her own reproductive decisions.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lives lost and options limited because of a radical minority's misogynist, hypocritical, pseudo-religious bullshit.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whatever spin they try to put on it, it is clearly motivated by the same hatred of women that has never stopped rearing its ugly head; one of many systemic efforts to restrict and control women around the world. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Women with fewer rights than men. Women not allowed to drive. Women who must hide their faces in public. Women who can’t choose whom they marry or when. Female genital mutilation. Women raped and honor-killed. Women with no health care, no education, no vote.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The old, ongoing story of women, for millennia chattel, controlled, stalked. Harrassed, assaulted, disbelieved. Abused. Terrorized. Murdered.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Burned as witches.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Chances are, you have experienced one or more of these things. Maybe there have been times (years) when you felt like prey the moment you stepped out of your front door (or even inside of your own home). When vigilance became automatic, when assessing the threat level was engrained behavior from such a young age that you don’t even think about it most of the time.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And times when, whatever you did or didn’t do, it wasn’t enough to protect you.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They have always wanted us to believe we are lesser-than. Powerless.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, and in times past, we utterly reject what they want us to believe. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We live our lives, and resist, and persist. We make our voices heard. We join together. We use our power. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We rise: in the divine feminine, in the power of women.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Because no law or person or can make us less than we are. No law or person can change our belief in our equality, and our rights as women and human beings.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We cannot be constrained by the limits of others, only ourselves.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A pagan woman, I draw power from that quiet voice of the witch inside me. From the sacred earth, of which we are part. From belief in my soul, in all its shadowed beauty. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I envision Eve walking forth from the garden of Eden; woman, and sinless, and whole unto herself. </span></span></p><div><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-16162327800296340512022-06-21T04:00:00.003-05:002022-12-01T16:15:34.081-06:00Midsummer<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">In the valley of the white oaks, time is measured by shifting clouds and the zip of blue dragonflies.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBCFNBJIe4xVqhNRrfQrtA8_2qIRsYB6VX4kPQPFx63Jccjb1ZbAdMu3HhzPiPLh5Rl5VrTGM2qag8YZa5mLM5TTy29Oa1GCBb3VJ4MZxGm7eOk1Km5C95JOvXs6YHjxQVFWzRoT0a2l_y7n37GRXm6G_tB2WIUrGeL3FwCq2zZ5S-14UGmoBhtr8/s4032/1FAF33E1-C396-4292-BAF9-5AF8111761B8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBCFNBJIe4xVqhNRrfQrtA8_2qIRsYB6VX4kPQPFx63Jccjb1ZbAdMu3HhzPiPLh5Rl5VrTGM2qag8YZa5mLM5TTy29Oa1GCBb3VJ4MZxGm7eOk1Km5C95JOvXs6YHjxQVFWzRoT0a2l_y7n37GRXm6G_tB2WIUrGeL3FwCq2zZ5S-14UGmoBhtr8/w640-h480/1FAF33E1-C396-4292-BAF9-5AF8111761B8.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-597f5b3c-7fff-ce17-a10c-8858b7beda28"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The landscape and time itself seem to undulate in unison, as if I have walked into a Van Gogh painting. Isn't Earth the first ecstatic artist? She who expresses her Self through living places and beings? And aren't all of our creations and expressions inspired by this life we are given?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtsgupBxGWxCXECFJkIgGZKOjOkZiy97-KKb2Wrp1vtRy8DTMNShrWDPv8HoEqkjBb6GLg4K70hehJvP3NZEWHLwK082giX9TphcIzQwKtnweUMW3tW6UIU7yYhnqz0PPg0xxmme_iusdMvgZpTHuASCPpM8SkGk31qARSsmV-8-Ifq9QuFJs5CWed/s4032/61597B65-FDAD-481C-B815-A75735BB55D8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtsgupBxGWxCXECFJkIgGZKOjOkZiy97-KKb2Wrp1vtRy8DTMNShrWDPv8HoEqkjBb6GLg4K70hehJvP3NZEWHLwK082giX9TphcIzQwKtnweUMW3tW6UIU7yYhnqz0PPg0xxmme_iusdMvgZpTHuASCPpM8SkGk31qARSsmV-8-Ifq9QuFJs5CWed/w640-h480/61597B65-FDAD-481C-B815-A75735BB55D8.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I am here, the present moment seems to stretch into eternity, in the midst of an intensely mortal beauty holding me in its spell — suspended, part of one long, deep, sustained breath. The world breathes. You can see and feel her breathing ... your home.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKTkQh73MYuemsicLMF_Ax05MoO4mwWckPskIm7X_OQizdMLWjTkx6zElgxr2lWfe2jWybKrFX-iiNlz-WcmgF8VIr7E2vm4LNlknX6TLXD5gZDaRmNnGH1W6PGvaxbj7nJPW0azDi0w-CD2VKnAunvjaxAPWda_rC8IBk2q64ZDALWNf9AFYYaw_W/s4032/9356F98F-02BE-41F7-A50B-49A5480B4CBE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKTkQh73MYuemsicLMF_Ax05MoO4mwWckPskIm7X_OQizdMLWjTkx6zElgxr2lWfe2jWybKrFX-iiNlz-WcmgF8VIr7E2vm4LNlknX6TLXD5gZDaRmNnGH1W6PGvaxbj7nJPW0azDi0w-CD2VKnAunvjaxAPWda_rC8IBk2q64ZDALWNf9AFYYaw_W/w640-h480/9356F98F-02BE-41F7-A50B-49A5480B4CBE.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You can rest now, in the cupped hand of the world. Finally, you are </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">here, </span><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">in a place you didn't know you were looking for</span><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here,</span><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> as you were as a child, when each midsummer day lasted a forever; each day bright and new and full of wonder. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">You remember, because you are still able to feel that wonder, on such a day and in such a place as this ... a vast garden, a waking dream, a soulscape. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">An utterly worldly and Otherworldly beauty, which are one and the same. A heaven and an earth, which are one and the same. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rest, now, in the eros of gravity holding you close to the beating heart of this world. There is a path to be walked. A sky to expand into. A ground to carry you.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT9s0ZTQWjqI4aM6WuFx1h-uFnCnTXDwkMsi0pxtyJF0XzOUV7SWBsdZdpcXY4E3Iu11EmmrztkvgFTEhZVkg7OrDHhrVkPuK5Uhj25gPqTO2IhUeX1mFpOAxCx37qXNxBw_xO6pghIyxxFCBli3shYN2PX328xPR8LB-21bNmsSbNZbVofHIuIKD5/s4032/00B6279E-6969-44F8-ABF5-A15B05635A83.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT9s0ZTQWjqI4aM6WuFx1h-uFnCnTXDwkMsi0pxtyJF0XzOUV7SWBsdZdpcXY4E3Iu11EmmrztkvgFTEhZVkg7OrDHhrVkPuK5Uhj25gPqTO2IhUeX1mFpOAxCx37qXNxBw_xO6pghIyxxFCBli3shYN2PX328xPR8LB-21bNmsSbNZbVofHIuIKD5/w480-h640/00B6279E-6969-44F8-ABF5-A15B05635A83.jpeg" width="480" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuI2Bqtoj2A4SHO6uV7n4aWJCVQBHQ6_XBSSuucNixiN-lb1BeBvG7raU_5XQtrQQBiOJlAc_6LS1XEwDGTu9b7ndBzdwazDm2AAeyYoS5Q_WB-C_35RKyPioU7zlb54IzGWJvBuBbwqvV71WNp-l9tlgrLKxiWphdnwdKZxJX4hEaVMUz6Iro35Wn/w480-h640/F93219E3-EA9A-4207-893E-817691BB141B.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigEfBKjP89Npy6cfPpMm2q9JHGR0aoR2ttuAsMHQ8HRq_R2dQCNrATFmfMsioPQM8qbI6BhUDtQ-8Fd_fxRXJNeUYA5zCHxdaFFn4LzGDJcAv2-31nOftJstO5G5qy5TVCwtfSzwRNSoP6K1mLKqwDFjeILjSNOq8dEpDJHzavjvN_NY2u9RkvjtlG/s3840/D5A174A3-DFB9-46EE-8AFF-1F92D01A429A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3840" data-original-width="2160" height="850" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigEfBKjP89Npy6cfPpMm2q9JHGR0aoR2ttuAsMHQ8HRq_R2dQCNrATFmfMsioPQM8qbI6BhUDtQ-8Fd_fxRXJNeUYA5zCHxdaFFn4LzGDJcAv2-31nOftJstO5G5qy5TVCwtfSzwRNSoP6K1mLKqwDFjeILjSNOq8dEpDJHzavjvN_NY2u9RkvjtlG/w478-h850/D5A174A3-DFB9-46EE-8AFF-1F92D01A429A.jpeg" width="478" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The eternal valley breathes, expressing its being in unfolding, dazzling flight paths, outflung branches, green wind speech, blossoms of blue wild indigo, overflowing gifts, the buzz of bumble bees. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Gather pollen while you may! For you, too, are gathered, into the hands of the Beloved Earth. You, too, love, and are loved in return.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You, too, are sacred, and divine, and live forever.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8gfkoMx7eWlgEut6_08XsFXkAA0-vAl_Xpny5amYOuQWlFuiU2wrE47okFIbA2DS-eTcgr6_hI_u5mQzxk68SEGtdr4tFHXcUFGs1gx1BfCraiYl9WO85iJ6pYsnT3YfSd0nhchH-A2yhmZqtXAZj8tP2irfa5kX29Qh7BAbkYS8PZ3hAPXzYLQ43/s4032/2267807B-E9AD-419C-9A17-8396EF0CA68F.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8gfkoMx7eWlgEut6_08XsFXkAA0-vAl_Xpny5amYOuQWlFuiU2wrE47okFIbA2DS-eTcgr6_hI_u5mQzxk68SEGtdr4tFHXcUFGs1gx1BfCraiYl9WO85iJ6pYsnT3YfSd0nhchH-A2yhmZqtXAZj8tP2irfa5kX29Qh7BAbkYS8PZ3hAPXzYLQ43/w640-h480/2267807B-E9AD-419C-9A17-8396EF0CA68F.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-21120241841077475142022-06-08T00:00:00.025-05:002022-06-08T00:00:00.175-05:00Wildflowers save lives<p>Eastern cottontails hop down sidewalks. Red-winged blackbirds chase trumpeter swans who float too near the nest. Snapping turtle lays her eggs next to Wood Lake. First-of-year monarchs, Eastern swallowtails, American lady butterflies. So many firsts already past. The wild lupine and blue wild indigo are blooming. A pair of blue herons wings by my window. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGNNwuzB250PFpDoqv7WXuvy00rUPrQnnRNDfQyki6MgpEljGEBki-xPCMgKXiRmn8iB9KCczD0y5Vfk4IvHKeT6_nMy_aZ8amyE8YtStkNs1jBoPNkjoHO_erDEal1zxroPoOeN_KzeBtg_BUdIFaD0tor8jSo2uzNIx6lYgtK4PLqa_Jx-zgRAbi/s4032/3B18C8E7-0C13-4183-B8D7-243A1226727A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Wild lupine" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGNNwuzB250PFpDoqv7WXuvy00rUPrQnnRNDfQyki6MgpEljGEBki-xPCMgKXiRmn8iB9KCczD0y5Vfk4IvHKeT6_nMy_aZ8amyE8YtStkNs1jBoPNkjoHO_erDEal1zxroPoOeN_KzeBtg_BUdIFaD0tor8jSo2uzNIx6lYgtK4PLqa_Jx-zgRAbi/w480-h640/3B18C8E7-0C13-4183-B8D7-243A1226727A.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQ05KXdqGQw05qx81rOaOrdUJCaMNa1rafAJ3hAreYslcEOVynu0ZipRsSmN6GD4vuBpKoPpUN8NLmkQL4S3ofP-5F7rrL1uhU0UcDfVxaNeiKKKXmhL0RQBxC94PJ2D_E_SnWmTirn_uS0ZxXICmw2eN8FOV_IgHbb65XQVNh6LWHU4pCIdWnavD/s4032/C9E45042-31BE-49A3-95E2-584BCA20723E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Blue wild indigo" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQ05KXdqGQw05qx81rOaOrdUJCaMNa1rafAJ3hAreYslcEOVynu0ZipRsSmN6GD4vuBpKoPpUN8NLmkQL4S3ofP-5F7rrL1uhU0UcDfVxaNeiKKKXmhL0RQBxC94PJ2D_E_SnWmTirn_uS0ZxXICmw2eN8FOV_IgHbb65XQVNh6LWHU4pCIdWnavD/w480-h640/C9E45042-31BE-49A3-95E2-584BCA20723E.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p>A squirrel chewed through a fascia board and has taken up residence in our attic. If a house is a sort of person (and why not?), then the attic is its head. A squirrel in the attic, looked at as a metaphor, could symbolize circling thoughts? A trapped feeling? Or maybe finding a temporarily safe place to rest? Bats in the belfry....</p><p>Ants find a crack in the siding and crawl in ones and twos over the kitchen counter, wondering about this strange new world of white quartz. I pick them up and they anxiously explore my hand or arm as I carry them outside into the garden. Be free, little ant. Be free, squirrel.</p><p>One day, a terrible continuous thunder fills the air and almost flattens me to the ground. High overhead, I see four ghostly fighter jets, one after the other. I can barely see them, but still need to cover my ears for minutes after they pass over. Later, I learn they were flying to base after doing a movie promotional event here — calling to mind several objectionable aspects of this American culture I was born to. </p><p>Such a bifurcated experience we live: On the one hand, glorious spring, earth's expression of hope and joy and beauty. On the other, democracy implodes in slow motion; the rise of authoritarianism and white supremacy, mass shootings, and the unrelenting destruction of our earthly home that continues every minute of every day. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxkHN2mFOtfsIOk3tIzSJ6VMTXm-gaKytgnHBj60NTdrpUx57maTup2MKkAjsg3h--8Z08kkPHeyHnqqL3mDg_z8X2H1-NoaO2s65mxTJYowyBa1jz9soe77mBcy8aEFFUvimp2l4-Rycxen4rP-R91Icd9UmAUyxdCIb_hfaTN2bRE5vxIvp8QCw/s4032/46324DB5-55C4-4FBA-BC67-CB462A32731E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Prairie smoke & wild strawberry" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxkHN2mFOtfsIOk3tIzSJ6VMTXm-gaKytgnHBj60NTdrpUx57maTup2MKkAjsg3h--8Z08kkPHeyHnqqL3mDg_z8X2H1-NoaO2s65mxTJYowyBa1jz9soe77mBcy8aEFFUvimp2l4-Rycxen4rP-R91Icd9UmAUyxdCIb_hfaTN2bRE5vxIvp8QCw/w480-h640/46324DB5-55C4-4FBA-BC67-CB462A32731E.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6-RNswKIq9-8NWnnfqgPiNoPvnb1AsuQ_-dYWT4wlfhOrc4AI0SyggL3PWq1K8MyI6SzP0wZxlM9tMODia3vfBmX7QWIigiFdbJcEjsmpLA0RmXO2TJy_tLUPuqxjCm2EpjT3Q2769T7_DenwW_gQGHIqPXWmIpfOEdNwB4stSO7BvnKSsN5AmI4/s4032/96C6D0BC-2716-44E3-912E-276F61667C43.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Golden Alexander" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6-RNswKIq9-8NWnnfqgPiNoPvnb1AsuQ_-dYWT4wlfhOrc4AI0SyggL3PWq1K8MyI6SzP0wZxlM9tMODia3vfBmX7QWIigiFdbJcEjsmpLA0RmXO2TJy_tLUPuqxjCm2EpjT3Q2769T7_DenwW_gQGHIqPXWmIpfOEdNwB4stSO7BvnKSsN5AmI4/w480-h640/96C6D0BC-2716-44E3-912E-276F61667C43.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS3eEat3ya-k0Az6WiotjTVw8cXlkCn1xQSYEbj86a29NBeCKvG_2npcaJ0X2XugMi2WRJmU_PBIZXVqqwXfJLjFHPOCDpqB07W_DE7_Dr-u1GNJdWauka4pFASwrgXizh2U5-mu1ggaXFCP78EdRl2zgyywDdlHbz-BMm64RNcvuLErUpI7Mh5SeC/s4032/0052561E-4668-4129-BF02-6EC904C0A522.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Solomon's plume" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS3eEat3ya-k0Az6WiotjTVw8cXlkCn1xQSYEbj86a29NBeCKvG_2npcaJ0X2XugMi2WRJmU_PBIZXVqqwXfJLjFHPOCDpqB07W_DE7_Dr-u1GNJdWauka4pFASwrgXizh2U5-mu1ggaXFCP78EdRl2zgyywDdlHbz-BMm64RNcvuLErUpI7Mh5SeC/w480-h640/0052561E-4668-4129-BF02-6EC904C0A522.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p>What does one do with all this? How to maintain sanity in the midst of it? I struggle with how to write about any of it. I have no great wisdom to offer or light to shed. I'm no poster child for behavioral health.</p><p>What I do: Write to friends. Read stories to escape for a while to Some Other Place. Talk to cats or birds or my husband. Walk, to calm myself, and to seek out beauty with a graced eye (as John O'Donohue wrote, "The graced eye can glimpse beauty anywhere, for beauty does not reserve itself for special elite moments...it does not wait for perfection but is present already secretly in everything.")</p><p>Most of all, I work in my native plant (ie, wildflower) gardens for hours nearly every day, as if they could save me. Distract me from the madness of the world, protect me from getting lost. Reward me with joy and meaning, heal mind and heart, comfort me when the world is chaotic and frightening. All those things.</p><p>My garden isn't only about me, though. The reason I put so much of my energy into it is because I don't know what else to do that feels important. I don't know any better way to give back for the life I have been given.</p><p>Another way to put it is that making this garden feels more important than anything else I can do, or that I am likely to do. </p><p>I've spent a lifetime writing, without knowing if I ever helped or changed one single thing or person, besides myself. Making a native garden, though, gives me a material way to help heal what has been destroyed — a way that I can manage, when everything else feels impossible. </p><p>I love that a garden is something you can touch, and smell, and feel, and see, and taste, and experience — outside of your mind, outside of thought. Outside of the attic in which I at times find my thoughts squirreling. </p><p>I love that a native garden is a space that invites in other creatures — to eat, rest, reproduce and live the lives they were meant to live. I love how generous nature is with her gifts. I can witness for myself the life-giving magic of these little gardens in each flower that offers nectar and pollen...each bee that feeds on these flowers...each butterfly that lays her eggs on a host plant...each leaf eaten by butterfly and moth caterpillars...and each caterpillar fed to nestling birds. </p><p>My native garden was designed and planted to support the most life possible. That is its reason for being, its meaning. Beauty is always present; but planting for beauty alone just isn't good enough when it comes to doing our part for the continuation of life on earth. There is so much at stake in the gardens we plant, the choices we make. Nearly every tree, shrub and flower growing here is native to this place, and was planted to feed the native insects and birds whose very survival depends on their presence in the landscape.* Many of these are keystone species, such as my beloved pair of bur oak trees. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9LEo5FZAYNv8hvdh7mawgSQeyYRDjBTLjE4vk95cxJZARknP5nTL-d8ckEE1n-O9Qy0S79-KyzpyZ3_FcYWdHl9OdwV_Mg6EwOVRshtTpvynGPCSr0v5ZpOomED6CPnvHozS4Gp3gGEIr6QIMsFgTeD9TuJPAcF4MUkW_PGIfupT1mbj3FTbfHzS/s4032/01ACBFD7-96F6-4551-AC8D-488C946BFEC4.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Wild geranium" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9LEo5FZAYNv8hvdh7mawgSQeyYRDjBTLjE4vk95cxJZARknP5nTL-d8ckEE1n-O9Qy0S79-KyzpyZ3_FcYWdHl9OdwV_Mg6EwOVRshtTpvynGPCSr0v5ZpOomED6CPnvHozS4Gp3gGEIr6QIMsFgTeD9TuJPAcF4MUkW_PGIfupT1mbj3FTbfHzS/w480-h640/01ACBFD7-96F6-4551-AC8D-488C946BFEC4.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEr13sa2K-1L437K8Ne3NwbYio3WQytGY0kFWOAdK2c65KTPig5AN5Mb3eqzL3TtUjFLXwXT_Ckdy_naCS5v_GHIFcFMDwoXZRkQdl83IdiU1JAffM867fbjSQPped6l9RBhhgKRYjLOBRR9SrI6kqFtRG0EXnY1pfo--WYC7Osbm97qYTgPqVMwRY/s3840/3AEFF06D-4314-42D4-A902-A0EF2692CB3D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Canada violet" border="0" data-original-height="3840" data-original-width="2160" height="831" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEr13sa2K-1L437K8Ne3NwbYio3WQytGY0kFWOAdK2c65KTPig5AN5Mb3eqzL3TtUjFLXwXT_Ckdy_naCS5v_GHIFcFMDwoXZRkQdl83IdiU1JAffM867fbjSQPped6l9RBhhgKRYjLOBRR9SrI6kqFtRG0EXnY1pfo--WYC7Osbm97qYTgPqVMwRY/w470-h831/3AEFF06D-4314-42D4-A902-A0EF2692CB3D.jpeg" width="470" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvNnt_mANAOr2M-mbu_NxLCj3XFJLGvh-x_4GHEW63M418fMnABLUyraq32luBfhPwNBfw8Bw8Q_Je5AXpMfj2qvCw9F1qYvTAoFpLJVVMjS5CpIK8MnJYfr1Zs9YZEYm-KQhwNRtLsClzJZk_yfMJqrRa3d0zh_MMJZ5NZPATlRaRMFFjo0DV6HZW/s4032/D2E14C74-B547-454A-9466-CDE44EA65345.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvNnt_mANAOr2M-mbu_NxLCj3XFJLGvh-x_4GHEW63M418fMnABLUyraq32luBfhPwNBfw8Bw8Q_Je5AXpMfj2qvCw9F1qYvTAoFpLJVVMjS5CpIK8MnJYfr1Zs9YZEYm-KQhwNRtLsClzJZk_yfMJqrRa3d0zh_MMJZ5NZPATlRaRMFFjo0DV6HZW/w480-h640/D2E14C74-B547-454A-9466-CDE44EA65345.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh6uHR8qY-ohzudDO_N-ojnPnWBtpxpHXQjHu7OuZKvb4nYmzKBCL0s4TPsEi8NrD0LRVKyGQmQxsRtvUYd98AVa7JRsCs5lmTEEHC1TzSUFMJIwWGnUykIlRlRfQBKkgzoTmBB8X1c6_VFWeJq-1ogRaq-kCGuoRticNgHqlPymuNUj46PnNyvddm/s4032/864AF781-AD4F-4DEE-8B59-825D2A7CEE4C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh6uHR8qY-ohzudDO_N-ojnPnWBtpxpHXQjHu7OuZKvb4nYmzKBCL0s4TPsEi8NrD0LRVKyGQmQxsRtvUYd98AVa7JRsCs5lmTEEHC1TzSUFMJIwWGnUykIlRlRfQBKkgzoTmBB8X1c6_VFWeJq-1ogRaq-kCGuoRticNgHqlPymuNUj46PnNyvddm/w480-h640/864AF781-AD4F-4DEE-8B59-825D2A7CEE4C.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p>So, on these still-cool summer days, I labor with all the love, knowledge, care and creativity I can muster. Willingly suffering scrapes, insect bites, bruises, sweat, occasional aching knees, stiff hands and cramping shoulders. With the earth embedded in the whorls of my fingertips. In service. To steward to this small piece of earth with my own two hands. </p><p>Though I work hard, I know I do only some of the work...the soil, the sun, the insects, the rain, and the plants themselves create the garden alongside me, and try to teach me along the way. Maybe they love me as I love them. </p><p>Maybe someday, if I am patient enough, I will hear what the plants want to tell me. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">* </span>Does it seem strange to you that in North America, we think of English and Asian garden plants as "traditional," because our great-grandmothers planted them (hello, turf grass lawns, lily of the valley, box hedges, callery pears and peonies)...while the lovely, critical wildflowers native to our region are scorned as "weeds"? Our colonial past isn't really past. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-31151200507269434642022-04-30T19:00:00.002-05:002022-04-30T19:00:00.167-05:00In the Land of Waiting-for-Spring<p>A tulip-in-waiting.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2UdIH2Bf9VZMazi3J1PmHF1fAd99MqyGkskkyjp8Taq0btQHgEbVPyUR_3k9tbGr9XlwVlTY97AdL9sUmINUTCumVvtIM7Rm57coWBY6Zp5z5TMH-MuUWjVidZB14kfBCdetg33cQ6C9en66bYzuF_TYFELWc5arVppOyHjfEs1knuwfqhWiYWCp/s4032/AF15F08D-607D-47CD-B4A6-FD5D1126A949.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2UdIH2Bf9VZMazi3J1PmHF1fAd99MqyGkskkyjp8Taq0btQHgEbVPyUR_3k9tbGr9XlwVlTY97AdL9sUmINUTCumVvtIM7Rm57coWBY6Zp5z5TMH-MuUWjVidZB14kfBCdetg33cQ6C9en66bYzuF_TYFELWc5arVppOyHjfEs1knuwfqhWiYWCp/w480-h640/AF15F08D-607D-47CD-B4A6-FD5D1126A949.heic" width="480" /></a></div><p>Pasque flowers await Queen bees, yet to emerge.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmzymkFFFJMOPRfj59Kh-bZnFvdCCbrVMzKd8i50Sw6Vzg6xF1GEcpMG5UGnG-TEBDvC-4BtegPIxCIBV7J1Sz9cg-oymVdEaDdIEkfakU9nUwiG3yRtU-fwwiRiaTqLrKvC_S91pX96ZXZ0FiPiiz7eHt9iaXyy_TIrrogfeQKxJs7BaT-4w6bYT/s4032/F700EACD-1686-4385-BA55-82D795E6FC09.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmzymkFFFJMOPRfj59Kh-bZnFvdCCbrVMzKd8i50Sw6Vzg6xF1GEcpMG5UGnG-TEBDvC-4BtegPIxCIBV7J1Sz9cg-oymVdEaDdIEkfakU9nUwiG3yRtU-fwwiRiaTqLrKvC_S91pX96ZXZ0FiPiiz7eHt9iaXyy_TIrrogfeQKxJs7BaT-4w6bYT/w480-h640/F700EACD-1686-4385-BA55-82D795E6FC09.heic" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p>In this season of waiting, in a time that can feel like the unraveling of the world, what gives life joy and meaning? What are the signs of hope that lift us up?</p><p>Wild ones always spark that joy.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9mkQxAmc4Y_xoKQo1aJzDR_aY4fCTgx9q14S8tofiTX19Fdc8TmRBFt98MzTUjeSn-EUPTc1SUft6jRd9F59RkAl3DMp8T1cK5KZ6cVRyXVsEe2vknhJy7Q2MQmXAgEUvVG2xXyYvGX5Wdvg5kVQ1Rqy6HwS2fmDTF6nSKLIwN4QSpRFSRdAQxDg/s4032/A2BA0D5B-AAA8-40A0-BE8E-3D543331BE81.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9mkQxAmc4Y_xoKQo1aJzDR_aY4fCTgx9q14S8tofiTX19Fdc8TmRBFt98MzTUjeSn-EUPTc1SUft6jRd9F59RkAl3DMp8T1cK5KZ6cVRyXVsEe2vknhJy7Q2MQmXAgEUvVG2xXyYvGX5Wdvg5kVQ1Rqy6HwS2fmDTF6nSKLIwN4QSpRFSRdAQxDg/w480-h640/A2BA0D5B-AAA8-40A0-BE8E-3D543331BE81.heic" width="480" /></a></div><p>Last week, at the base of this oak hill by the river, a flash of soft yellow caught my eye. An inquisitive little goldfinch watched me from her perch with bright eyes. As I spoke to her in my most bird-beguiling tones, she fluttered to a near branch, and then to a nearer to listen for a moment.</p><p><br /></p><p>Another day, high overhead I saw a migrating kettle of hawks and watched, mesmerized, as they swirled and spiraled on a thermal, a column of warm, ascending air. An ancient, circling dance of black wings against blue sky.</p><p><br /></p><p>Earlier, on an evening when telescopes were set up to view the stars, I witnessed a breathtaking sight: a flock of night-migrating swans. </p><p>Out of nowhere they swept into view. They wheeled and undulated like a murmuration of starlings, then winged away west, a dazzling oneness of movement and purpose — crossing the continent to a destination only they knew. </p><p>Never before have I witnessed the great movement of spring migration across North America at this scale, as it was happening. I was speechless with wonder, reverence. The swans' <i>surety</i>, their way of knowing what to do, where to go, when to go there...all of the many mysteries swans know of that humans do not; not least of all, how to get from <i>here</i> to <i>there, </i>using senses humans will never know. </p><p>How amazing to see these white-feathered beings flying as one in all their power and striving, and in accord with their internal knowledge — inhabiting their full, embodied, necessary lives — in their rightful place in the great web of being. </p><p>This is magic. This is the spell of the wild. Touched by the ineffable; the swans' sacred nature revealed to me, their utter belonging to the ancient cycles of the wheel of the year, and to the community of earth and sky. </p><p>I felt I had touched the vital source. For one singing moment, I felt part of the vast sweep of life on earth, this beautiful earth I love so much. </p><p>Beltaine blessings as the rain falls from this Land of Waiting-for-Spring. </p><div><br /></div><p style="background-color: #f6f9fc; box-sizing: inherit; color: #495570; font-family: "Noto Serif", Georgia, serif; font-size: 17px; margin: 0px 0px 24px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-47340054241220032832022-04-12T05:00:00.001-05:002022-04-12T05:00:00.164-05:00The garden of Eden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBwFItgPJIZNi-uonJi_4knni4SxEZ7jgrx8HFP7oL6WiX4Dho3LiQfLWUY7DaTM1BOUmqvQGTLV6wSDH5QCVQrJLbFiTOW8o9bE0ffgJ_856byNYluN_tBTB8X7d3JJ4LAtgg0JX_lXAh8t3nStJTpgtYP0EqcCorVR6eWG2UZpv6aOc8YPq0HVrg/s5312/44F6A901-519D-42AE-8C9B-C6B9A44DE1D9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5312" data-original-width="2988" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBwFItgPJIZNi-uonJi_4knni4SxEZ7jgrx8HFP7oL6WiX4Dho3LiQfLWUY7DaTM1BOUmqvQGTLV6wSDH5QCVQrJLbFiTOW8o9bE0ffgJ_856byNYluN_tBTB8X7d3JJ4LAtgg0JX_lXAh8t3nStJTpgtYP0EqcCorVR6eWG2UZpv6aOc8YPq0HVrg/w360-h640/44F6A901-519D-42AE-8C9B-C6B9A44DE1D9.jpeg" width="360" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>If I could plant the words I've written in the ground, what would grow from them, I wonder? <div><br /></div><div>A spiny cactus...?</div><div><br /></div><div>A sweet fruit...?</div><div><br /></div><div>A flowering tree...?</div><div><br /></div><div>A perfect white blossom that unfolds under moonlight, and fades by dawn.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdsz9XDaTPc4_-ABJ2N-zcy2k-NcQXjOJsdPbHv3FnxkLYbemNN0_WilQ-4eZ32yaH3JotXmo_sqytVf-PgH0WbEAUXHBdUASELp4Gw89c_ojhfwqrkFhd2NVc6IEhOma41aB-0idul9caLfTk90dNtwudV4KQyOh8bTUIDTOugkbV4ubRAnMp2PME/s5312/B6536E84-BAC5-4A5B-B192-9600349E13B5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5312" data-original-width="2988" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdsz9XDaTPc4_-ABJ2N-zcy2k-NcQXjOJsdPbHv3FnxkLYbemNN0_WilQ-4eZ32yaH3JotXmo_sqytVf-PgH0WbEAUXHBdUASELp4Gw89c_ojhfwqrkFhd2NVc6IEhOma41aB-0idul9caLfTk90dNtwudV4KQyOh8bTUIDTOugkbV4ubRAnMp2PME/w360-h640/B6536E84-BAC5-4A5B-B192-9600349E13B5.jpeg" width="360" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In my garden of self-negating choices grow spines, thistles and stinging nettles. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is a garden I have planted and watered. Bramble and thorn. Bitter fruits that poison the spirit. Withered tangles and spines that draw blood, numb the mind, drain away hope.</div><div><br /></div><div>What are self-negating choices? </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes you neglect to be the guardian of your own needs and feelings. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes you avoid knowing your own unhappiness. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes you forget how to care for yourself. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes you are the source of your own pain. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In my garden of kindness is food for everyone. A sacred spring where every creature, every soul can drink the waters of compassion and healing. </div><div><br /></div><div>A cool green place to rest when weary. Deep and fertile soil, where the seeds of intention, wish, longing and mystery can take root. </div><div><br /></div><div>A place where I can grow into a person I can only imagine right now. </div><div><br /></div><div>Is this my true home? </div><div><br /></div><div>I plant it with my two hands, and call it my very own. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1nz0t7K1prY">'81 by Joanna Newsom</a></div><div><br /></div>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-25555863659607220802022-04-03T05:00:00.060-05:002022-12-01T16:49:42.692-06:00Rose and thorn<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in; padding: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii3cnUfZWjDbSa3w6mGAU2kUljASUY9BsBE7ooksVqnYyH_dOxtVJ3LqiQ4HeH5VWpaCcBmFX0btAcY2ZnNMcSHbHQPe54cAKFgdIZ9hBWQxwrxH9SJ6ySsVz8mOoQWJ9_a6mLbcXSuzC2fVlheUfhG55MyeZmyQy950-5X6JbCm8Sm8ZgjRO5uWle/s5312/04AEFACE-B847-41A5-A51A-3653033BD81A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5312" data-original-width="2988" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii3cnUfZWjDbSa3w6mGAU2kUljASUY9BsBE7ooksVqnYyH_dOxtVJ3LqiQ4HeH5VWpaCcBmFX0btAcY2ZnNMcSHbHQPe54cAKFgdIZ9hBWQxwrxH9SJ6ySsVz8mOoQWJ9_a6mLbcXSuzC2fVlheUfhG55MyeZmyQy950-5X6JbCm8Sm8ZgjRO5uWle/w360-h640/04AEFACE-B847-41A5-A51A-3653033BD81A.jpeg" width="360" /></a></div><o:p> </o:p><p></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">When the darkness comes and the fire is lit, when you sit together fearing what is to come, that is when <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCnEJYds1iA" target="_blank">someone calls for a song</a>.<o:p></o:p></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">One unaccompanied voice rises in the silence. Grief-layered edges speak of sorrow, an ache that stirs longing and holds the loss of all who listen. A melody that sounds like the feeling of heavy clouds, pierced for a moment by a flood of sunlight. The refrain sends a vibration through you; a feeling like what once was, but now is lost.<o:p></o:p></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">Yet, at the very center of the calling to grief and sorrow, lay hope and joy. Because the truth is, there is no grief without joy, and no joy without grief. </p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">One lives within the other, forever intertwined; a briar rose, a blackthorn tree in bloom, a phoenix singing as it bursts into flame.<o:p></o:p></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">“Sorrow is not the opposite of joy. Sorrow is walking deeper into joy.”* <o:p></o:p></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">Music, this wordless speech that arrows straight into our hearts. Music, the language of emotion, as art is the language of symbol and image.<o:p></o:p></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">Music speaks truths that bypass thought, truths about what it means to be alive. Music (as all we create) originates in an “other” place we cannot delineate or control. Music delivers transcendence, heightening and enlarging our experience as inhabitants of this bitter and sweet world. Music connects us to one another, tells us we belong here.<o:p></o:p></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">Music expresses the soul's longing in ways that words cannot.<o:p></o:p></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">John O'Donohue said, "Music is what language would love to be if it could." For the most meaningful experiences and emotions in life can be only suggested by words, which are just signifiers or representatives of emotions. Certain states of being may be beyond even the power of poets to tell.<o:p></o:p></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">Do you feel that is true?<o:p></o:p></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">But music, alive with its own ways of being, speaks to our emotional and physical body with language it understands; penetrates our inner landscapes to inhabit the psyche. The soul. </p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">There, in that unknowable land, music companions us — as a truth we understand without understanding how, as a story we tell to ourselves.<o:p></o:p></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">We help to create and enliven every song and story and poem that we love, simply by loving them. There is no love without co-creation. In loving, we fit together our edges, make their wonder part of ourselves — and gift our own wonder to them. </p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">What we love, we make our own. We make what we love our own. This, we know. </p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;">We invite inside the song of rose and thorn, hold it fast, <span style="font-size: 12pt;">feel where it makes us wider and deeper, and make it our own.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px 0in; padding: 0px;"><o:p></o:p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">And we are changed.</span></p><p><br /></p><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px;">*Susan Cain, </span><a href="https://brenebrown.com/podcast/how-sorrow-and-longing-make-us-whole-part-1-of-2/" style="background-color: white; color: #0563c1; cursor: pointer; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px;">Unlocking Us Podcast</a>.</div>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-51201138226331619082022-03-22T05:00:00.007-05:002022-07-18T12:23:48.439-05:00Putting forth leaves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjT7hSVzqqKBFtc7oUIaAs2apvPTcIFEgvxRGYfvjEKzH7U569EwnGKR_GlWqmTN-VXuwXRBVXA-gDONucmUglS7xx0oJqWVU5BaWvTJxBC9s0357NPuQUp0MRL8f_J2g8lBRo0CYPz7RIZJFQHRaGSGf1zyhyWjBeImGVpx3s0F6FwlwlmTx2OZKn1=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjT7hSVzqqKBFtc7oUIaAs2apvPTcIFEgvxRGYfvjEKzH7U569EwnGKR_GlWqmTN-VXuwXRBVXA-gDONucmUglS7xx0oJqWVU5BaWvTJxBC9s0357NPuQUp0MRL8f_J2g8lBRo0CYPz7RIZJFQHRaGSGf1zyhyWjBeImGVpx3s0F6FwlwlmTx2OZKn1=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br />Birds know already that it is rightful springtime. Suddenly, they zoom quick as a thought across this pale blue sky, gather in busy conversations among the branches, hunt for seeds, full of bustle and energy.<div><br /></div><div>Prairie smoke, wild columbine, pussytoes and penstemons unfold purple-green leaves on the muddy soil, encircled by melting fields of ice. Their season of sleep is over. The sun moves into them, pouring from a golden goblet of fire that quickens their green veins. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Oak King is rising, the Holly King dreams. The sun now rises due East, edging ever northward on its journey to the summer solstice. </div><div><br /></div><div>My annual seeds wait in bright packets: gaillardia, black-eyed susan vine. Zinnia. Brazilian vervain, cleome. When frosts are gone and soil is warm, I will plant a riot of their butterfly colors to spring forth among the purples, pinks and yellows.</div><div><br /></div><div>For now, they sleep, as I do; even on the first day of spring. </div><div><br /></div><div>The truth is, if I were planted in the garden, I would be one of those species that has seemingly died over the winter, causing much consternation. Will it emerge or not; and if so, when? </div><div><br /></div><div>Patience is required. Perhaps this species stirs only when May magics the hawthorns and crabapples into their splendid white blooms, waiting until all the world has taken up its spring song. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the other hand, transformation could wait for June, or July, or another season altogether. </div><div><br /></div><div>Wildflowers, trees, tulips, selves all unfold in their own good time, responding to the light, the air; to their own mysterious, internal knowing. </div><div><br /></div><div>The life that inhabits all in this world sleeps and wakens as it will, when it will. You can't reason with it, can't force it. All you can do is work and wait, like a woman trying to shed the snakeskin of winter in spring. Wait with patience, with none. With the childlike faith you usually reserve for making wishes. </div><div><br /></div><div>As you wait, you pretend that you are the person who can simply swallow a spring wind to grow leaves in your heart. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div></div>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-71412651840207211912022-03-02T05:00:00.004-06:002022-03-02T05:00:00.184-06:00Wide sky<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWnKqayi55G-053v_9n1LvsuIVxntAkLurtvrzxGEKmMuiYrRb-j_MilQnk74HhQ2mPWD9TIA3esfdwqyFpDkNop5JhOuO3DYYk5whtGKdvha-3HQ0PMiop4zklVQZQDNVSL3UIGAzkcQZKBWnragAj3k5QhDVh_o669v7KrPETItC5cuuY5TKh1gx=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWnKqayi55G-053v_9n1LvsuIVxntAkLurtvrzxGEKmMuiYrRb-j_MilQnk74HhQ2mPWD9TIA3esfdwqyFpDkNop5JhOuO3DYYk5whtGKdvha-3HQ0PMiop4zklVQZQDNVSL3UIGAzkcQZKBWnragAj3k5QhDVh_o669v7KrPETItC5cuuY5TKh1gx=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>You could write a poem about a day with a wide sky; a day enlivened by the wind of the breathing Earth.</p><p>But maybe the day itself is a poem? A poem that you live, and afterward try to capture in words. Sky so wide with possibility; a beautiful blue page across which to drift your thought clouds. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">. . . </div><p>I read a recent post from author Rebecca Solnit. She came across a man pruning a flowering magnolia tree, collected what had fallen to the ground, and carried it home. She wrote, we are all battered magnolia blossoms right now, who want to be gathered up and seen. </p><p>It felt deeply true, truer than facts, true in the striking way that belongs only to metaphors. </p><p>Certain metaphors send a jolt of recognition through us. Yes, we think, that's <i>exactly</i> how it is. Why didn't I see that before?</p><p>We can all think and create using metaphors, of course; this is one of humanity's gifts. But perhaps to develop this gift, we need to notice what is in front of us, be open to its teaching, and listen to what arises from within us in response.</p><p>Seen through a certain lens, our daily lives <i>are</i> poems. Tales. Myths. Rich with unexpected connections, symbols, signs, analogies, associations, archetypes, characters, metaphors. </p><p>Through metaphor, we can understand the connections that are already here, waiting for us to see them. </p><p>We can create connections between experiences that initially seem disconnected...a faceted narrative that we can turn this way and that, reflecting our lives back to us in a new form.</p><p>We can make meaning out of what we dismiss as meaningless. Frame difficult realities so they are easier to bear, and add untold depths to our joys and sorrows. </p><p>It is up to us. A wide sky can be seen as nothingness...or, it is our most expansive, unbounded selves, unfolding into the cosmos, as far and as wide as our souls and hearts can imagine reaching. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-60916392091552448432022-02-23T05:00:00.027-06:002022-02-24T12:23:31.968-06:00We are companioned<div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpfTzBxeX3eC2lP6MIhf1KWaRaFEWo4skX64Fi6fmxLirlZ5x6Z1HJ0qoO-XEQFL8XaPtL3VNfdlcIWKwIj8fvT_pToM8X4fL4VnOs3FMTKmUwBaYZVu0QTD1KbeU_SLFfG9iae-FrnkDGJDYQh-UDQ6LplFymkpeH64pd9Iwy5PkB0Hc6caJ3rU3W=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpfTzBxeX3eC2lP6MIhf1KWaRaFEWo4skX64Fi6fmxLirlZ5x6Z1HJ0qoO-XEQFL8XaPtL3VNfdlcIWKwIj8fvT_pToM8X4fL4VnOs3FMTKmUwBaYZVu0QTD1KbeU_SLFfG9iae-FrnkDGJDYQh-UDQ6LplFymkpeH64pd9Iwy5PkB0Hc6caJ3rU3W=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the imaginal realm, the sky glows like a gray pearl. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">S</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">now swirls around me like frost-smoke. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Out of nowhere trots Fox, with a jaunty air. Sparks of magic fly from his russet fur. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Wonder</span> fills me at his presence<span style="font-family: inherit;">. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fox</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> does not pause in his trotting, but acknowledges me with one backward glance over his shoulder. A clear invitation.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I am coming!" I call. "Wait for me!" </span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But Fox slips along the trail only he can see, and disappears into the tanglewood. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I head off. Only in such fresh snow would I ever be able to track a fox at all, you understand. Though the drifting snow tries to swallow the prints, </span>I follow them to<span style="font-family: inherit;"> an opening under the hill. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I stoop to peer into the cave. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I do not see the fox, but a small wood fire burns on the stony ground. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I enter and sit down. As I warm my hands at the flames, I hear the voice of the fire: "I am here to warm you, to shine down upon you, to bring you light in dark places. Know that you are not alone." </span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The ancient stone beneath me speaks next: "I am Earth's bones. For your whole life and beyond will I hold you; you are never alone." </span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I hear the liquid voice of small rivulets that trickle down the cave walls. Water says to me, "I am with you, to quench your thirst, to bathe your wounds, to wash you clean. I am part of you, you are never alone." </span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then, from the darkest part of the cave, where the shadows flicker, comes forth Fox. In the firelight, he gazes at me in silence. Then I hear him say, "I am the voice of the bright peoples. W</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">e are your teachers, your soul kin and companions in this life. Seen or unseen, we are always with you, so you are never alone." </span></div><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p> <br /></o:p><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><o:p> <br /></o:p><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; padding: 0px; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p></o:p></p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-17526404206774052322022-02-13T05:00:00.000-06:002022-02-13T14:54:26.192-06:00The constant gardener<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivx2zoAk3J_Wl2mR_cDonZgGR-jdVaWkmmCiKIiz7gHN7Zxv_N4xqLJZNFEem98ldBTPRCrRBxqg6xNNy0hi08N0BHeWaqDTHGyICwledvI1KwKFqM1HqTeuhDc6mydsfydy0NegR0NfZ5891UgwgW4CTN9QuhfRghDrTt1EUzfBUkt3nLiylhIpfQ=s5312" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5312" data-original-width="2988" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivx2zoAk3J_Wl2mR_cDonZgGR-jdVaWkmmCiKIiz7gHN7Zxv_N4xqLJZNFEem98ldBTPRCrRBxqg6xNNy0hi08N0BHeWaqDTHGyICwledvI1KwKFqM1HqTeuhDc6mydsfydy0NegR0NfZ5891UgwgW4CTN9QuhfRghDrTt1EUzfBUkt3nLiylhIpfQ=w360-h640" width="360" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One day, I sat in front my altar and lit a candle, inviting any whisper of insight. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I gazed in turn at each of the earth treasures upon the altar, I began to tell myself a blessing story about the soul seeds I hope I am planting. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What is a blessing story? A kind of spell … a kind of prayer … a means of tending the inner landscape.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I envisioned these seeds within being nurtured by the powers of the sacred elements, symbolized on my altar: earth, air, fire, water and spirit. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I asked that sacred Earth hold my seeds in waiting darkness until they are ready to unfold. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That sacred sun and rain awaken the sleeping seeds, calling forth fragile roots and tendrils. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That my soul seeds grow my spirit in the directions it needs to grow; that they someday bear flowers and fruit, to feed what needs to be fed. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That I am one with the Turning of the Wheel — the never-ending rebirth of this ground that we stand upon — which holds us so faithfully, without faltering, through our entire lives and beyond. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I offered gratitude for Earth’s sacred gifts, uncountable as the stars. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And I thought: We are the gardeners of our own souls. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Who will tend them, if we do not?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p></div><br /><p></p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1916523607533787507.post-28535785645389143922022-01-31T17:28:00.001-06:002022-02-13T14:58:10.584-06:00What I remember<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh14u-mJMG1lkx-7Q02cLheGGfUPSaWQrMZ2kS9NVKNZOdeJgDU6gyTPXjr3VvL_QiQ5Twb1vg5jPhl3N6PGHcVNsr-o0YhcvslkyGr5aPJjNrzX31WTxYJ3kp_vV7hLppl9P3YSb_IFqav7wOCgGyE_KUAec3bd1ugOf3qYvYicfV-vp71-7-DX35w=s5312" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5312" data-original-width="2988" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh14u-mJMG1lkx-7Q02cLheGGfUPSaWQrMZ2kS9NVKNZOdeJgDU6gyTPXjr3VvL_QiQ5Twb1vg5jPhl3N6PGHcVNsr-o0YhcvslkyGr5aPJjNrzX31WTxYJ3kp_vV7hLppl9P3YSb_IFqav7wOCgGyE_KUAec3bd1ugOf3qYvYicfV-vp71-7-DX35w=w360-h640" width="360" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On the eve of Imbolc, I feel like my candle is unlit. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At this time of year, I long for a sense of kindling. A feeling that the world is inviting me. But all is quiet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Northern winter is long; a test, really. It tests our patience as we wait for the world to unfold in its own time. It tests our belief that from the grayness we, too, can rise green and new, like the eternal springtime.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When we see only the cloud-thick skies of winter, we cannot notice how the light is growing. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">From our rooms, we cannot notice how the Bald Eagle and Great Horned Owl already nest in the tallest white pines and cottonwoods. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But, seen or unseen, we know that Earth manifests all in its right time. Including our Selves.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A sacred sun burns deep inside each of us. So I believe. Some call it spirit, or divinity, or life force.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes we feel the flames leaping. Other times, it may burn so quietly. And in the depths of a winter of the soul, we may worry that the fire has flickered out. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We may not know that slow, quiet transformations are happening within us, which cannot be measured. Or understand how to unravel the messages we send ourselves in dreams, or synchronicities, or patterns. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We may hear a voice saying that perhaps we are too old, or too worn out, to be renewed; that our story has somehow ended, without our even being aware of it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But then we are reminded. Are we not made of this constantly renewing Earth? Yes. Of the same essence as the clouds, the crow, the ice, the snow. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We know then that our lives are not small, but enormous … shapeshifting, unfolding, flaming, throwing light all around us. Ever-renewing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is what Imbolc helps me to remember. </span></p></div><br /><p></p>Wyld Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07724169384339460086noreply@blogger.com0