Trail of Joy

And let it be known, that yes, I join the trees in their dance of life. May all others join who travel upon the trail of my life.

Present Presence

Nature has never failed to delight my heart when I go and seek her sanctuary. Sometimes, though, when I just go to go without asking or needing, those are the times I notice...she has a seat waiting for me. May I always have eyes to see Life's welcome.

Dormancy's Dance

Last year's growth says to the cold and moisture "Come and rest upon me." What some might see as dormant and without life transforms the two into one. A resting place for life. Dormancy's dance with life.

Gifted Softness

No greater tip could be left for one who carried out the banquet for nature's small ones to eat. A soft reminder the feather is on the ground but the winged bird is still in flight. A gentle touch from nature to nature, a small blanket offering warmth to the snow and earth. May my touch upon the earth be so simple, be so gentle.

Into the Day! La Chaim!

To think the first light snow is now drops of water and the sun is playing peek-a-boo in a drop of snowwater.  One of the drops has foregone the drop shape.  How can one's heart not laugh? How can I refuse nature's invitation to a whimsical magical day? Sweet Life...I'm on my way!!!

Beauty of Now

At first, to think an autumn leaf, without its tether, clinging to the tree from which it had been released. Then, a quiet approach yielded the sight of a butterfly camouflaged as a leaf. Camouflaged only with its wings raised. What you cannot see are the brilliant orange and red colors, fiery and dazzling in their splendor when opened. On the tree it is a leaf. Nestled among leaves it is a flower. Nature's reminder that simply being in that moment, this moment now shields from all predators and limitations that would define and diminish.

Resounding Love

And if a little hobbit were to tell you that for the past two hours the hobbit house's adobe walls have shook so that a picture fell to the floor and crashed like the thunder, that the lightning proved it can light a room in the darkest hour of night brighter than the sun a midday, and that the hobbit has stood beneath the shower head of the sky would you even begin to feel what the morning has been like?  It was as if the rain fortress in the sky had to be dynamited to be released upon the drought and fire ridden earth of my little state and city. And so it falls this morning. Soaking into the night covered ground before the sun can find and drink. Sometimes prayers are answered with whispers. Sometimes the Love that answers bellows "Hear my voice and remember!" Sometimes tears and rain, thunder and heart beats, lightning and smiles are the same.

"The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment
at which moment
my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain –
imagine! imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours" ~ Mary Oliver

Choosing Magic Choosing Grace

This morning on my walk I noticed a solitary deer as I walked back. She stood in the flat grasses as I stood and watched. My little heart opened. As I moved to walk on she slowly walked parallel to me. I stopped. She stopped and turned her head and watched me. Sometimes she would move in my direction, then pause and we would chat. A couple of times she pranced, not an escaping bound but a prancing like a thoroughbred horse. Sweet mercy so beautiful.  We walked parallel for a bit. I thought maybe she might like to be on the other side where the lake is, so I stopped and told her I would wait. She stared at me and then slowly walked ahead in my direction. Paused and looked at me and then crossed prancing to the other side. I watched until she was well on her way, and saw her look and we said good morning and good bye.

I thought of the morning. How my body not perky made me linger just a bit before I left. How my little dog and I stood for a few moments by the car to take in all we could see. And then on the walk, to linger against the Old One Trees. To stop briefly and touch the most amazing delicate blue flowers. Little pauses or speed ups here and there and was gifted my friend the doe who walked with me.

To another who may or may not have seen the doe, other explanations are easily offered. But perhaps, I ponder, that is indeed the thread…how we choose to see what we choose to see.

Earthen Clod of Joy

Last night, for some reason, the whispers of the moon's cycles called me to read. Farmers have long sought to join their planting with the cycles of the moon. Poets and mystics have likewise looked to the moon for the tilling of the earthen heart. When the moon is moving from full to new, is best to plant rooted plants or vegetables. The moon is drawing energy from the earth, and rooted plants would be deep in the earth where the energy abides. When the moon is moving from new moon to full is best to plant flowering or above ground plants for the moon is shining down her energy to nourish. And like the tides that move with the moon's cycle and pull, even the moisture within the earth moves like the tides drawing upward to nourish the seeds when the moon is full and ebbing back down when the fullness of her pull is slight. Within each cycle there are called barren days, when the earth simply needs to rest and abide in the energy that has been and is soon to be.

I remember years ago attending a Good Friday evening service. The service was somber. I looked around at an almost empty church and thought how odd knowing it would be packed come Easter morning. Those that did attend were elderly. Their presence was palpable and majestic as they listened to the somber service. At the end of the service the altar was stripped, all adornments were removed and the cross was cloaked in black. I know the power and touch of wind and storms, the warmth of the sun, the immersion of silence and yes, I know silence all too well. Never has silence held such presence as I watched the few elderly that were there as they moved about stripping the altar and not a word was said. When the last adornment was removed, the cross cloaked in black, they simply left into the night, again in silence, their presence adorning the sanctuary stripped of all else. Sunday the now stripped sanctuary would be filled with color, joy, and packed with people dressed in such finery and laughter.

We yearn for the glory of spring. We long for the abundance, warmth, growth and its folding into the busyness and play of summer. A week ago, in my own yearning of the seasons, I planted seeds. I watched the earth for their emergence. The earth and pots looked stripped like the sanctuary. Still I watered knowing the seeds were there. At night the moon shone through their window.  At last a sprout emerged but a clod of dirt weighted it down. I watched as the sprout pushed its way up, carrying the clod on its clumped fist of two leaves, lifting the earth, not to be denied.  The day after this picture was taken, the clod of earth had been tossed to the side and the sprout stood straight welcoming the touch of the sun and moon. And in its tossing of the clod, another tiny sprout waited to emerge ... and would do so free of the weight...the clod was perfectly placed.

May I learn the rhythm of Life, Love and nature. To know when to allow my roots to go deep. To know when to stand tall, blossom and flower. To know that barren days are but Hope's rest and silence, nurturing the strength within. To know when the weight seems heavy, to continue to push and then to toss aside so another may grow. To know the joy, the color, the beauty of being human and honor the days of feeling stripped of all adornments. May I, please sweet Life, never forego the rhythms of fullness, the celebration of Life's tides and pulls and attend Life only in the spring. May I be so wise. May I be so joyful. May I not deny myself the clod of earth...its joy, love, laughter and hope.

Extremities Touching

Walking back to the car yesterday a whisper turned my head to see a rock. Not that unusual but it looked like an egg or a little image of the earth as viewed from outer space. I picked it up and could feel the sun's warmth it had gathered inside spreading into my hand. Together we shared our warmth as I finished my walk. This morning as I sat in meditation I placed it against my heart and could feel my heart beat through its shape against my hand. The two images bound in my mind. Holding it in my hand yesterday my finger tips could feel warmth. Holding it against my heart my finger tips could feel my heart beat. To hold nature close, gently and with gratitude my extremities touch, feel, circulate and pulse. Is that not the way of nature? Solid, liquid, vapor and in-between all dance together as one calling for our embrace. And when I embrace the union of wholeness, balance, rhythm, ritual fill my Self and in turn the Universe. My touch of nature touches the extremities of all about me. As Life, people, thoughts, situations, and choices encounter me, may I have the grace of the rock to offer only warmth and the pulse of the heart to each extremity reaching out.  May the world I offer every thing be like the world of nature. Extremities touching and going inward.

Gifts for Why

I ponder the "why" Life and Light chose this body. Did it wonder the touch of a cloud's shadow upon the flesh? Did it long to hear the song of gravel beneath these feet? Did it imagine looking up to see a hawk in flight or the dance of trees with the wind? Maybe, the yearning was to feel the body prone upon both earth and ice, eyes and arms stretched as far as they could daring to reach for the tunnel,. The gentle defiance of a rock nestled in the cave between the body's ribs. Perchance the desire to feel the vibration of earth, water, and ice as the laughter thundered and the earth laughed. 

Whatever your reason, Sweet Life... my gifts I offer to you. And in Your Oneness, but a finger has to touch the rock, and the body is again stretched upon ice and water and the voice of the tunnel echoes with laughter.

Grace of Soft

It seems sometimes that so much of what we see, reactions, conversations, beliefs, media, whatever, challenges even the most determined heart too remain soft. So much easier, it would seem, to just go with the "flow." But... still....

This morning a whisper to go and walk and take my little bag of corn meal. To walk, not in nature, but along the busy streets as commuters frantically rushed to work. You could see their eyes and faces, even the way they held the steering wheel. As they passed a whisper of 'soft.'   

After a bit I came to a large cemetery with patches of trees untouched, and little winding paths. Wandering through their maze, I came upon a pile of tree trunks, branches, and trees that had been cut and tossed out of sight. Standing and thinking of all the clearing to create such an area, I noticed a cloth flower from the cemetery had somehow found its way through the trees and rested upon the pile of weathered limbs and trunks.  A gentle branch held it in place. The ritual of leaving corn meal is a Native American tradition - when something from the earth is taken, corn meal is left as a gift of thanks. Kneeling I sprinkled my corn meal and offered my gift of thanks to the flower. 

A different kind of flow. One I can live with. I know many don't understand. Simply the grace of soft. 

BE IN G

When I walk or sit with nature, or simply look out the window, touch one of my feathers or rocks, I have no thought, no conscious direction to do, be, see or feel. I am simply present, open and withIN gratitude. I do not respond I become the response to all about me and flowing into me. The response is gratitude. This morning the whisper gratitude IS Love, Love IS Gratitude and you ARE always IN Nature... BE IN G.

 Confetti Clouds 

The need to get lost 

No thought only my senses stand 

Within the embrace of Home. 

Where do thoughts fly to 

When tree’d arms toss them away 

Mental order now confetti clouds? 

My trunk to climb yours 

My body tucked in your arms 

Watching confetti clouds fly.

Seasons' Paths

Yesterday upon the earth I sat, my back supported by a tree, thinking my body could go no further. All around me I saw weathered rock sculpted like art, young trees that bent their trunks to find the sliver of sun between the canopies of older trees, fallen trees leaning against another and thriving. Even the path had changed from the wind the night before. This morning I fell into a fit of giggles as I looked at the thermostat and the same drop in temperature I would have danced to in the summer now made the house feel cold, yet the "drop" was the same. Years move me forward and deceive me into thinking life is linear and "progressive." Nature knows no end, does not expect to end. Even the smallest life form with the shortest life span explodes into life without thought that it will not continue. I shall grow and "age" with the seasons and their rhythms, knowing each season's wisdom, change, twists, turns, quietness, rebirth, renewal, the paths that suddenly become visible and their dance. As T.S. Elliot said, "There is only the dance." Hello.... I am 235 seasons dancing into forever naturally.

To not let myself or the world paint a linear path. We are an ocean in a dewdrop (Rumi). A "creation" which is truly both a noun (present state) and a verb (constantly creating, Flow).

A Tale of Two Blogs

Late afternoon and my spirit, with a demand not a whisper, called me to go walk. Not my usual time, dark approaching. I hesitated and then went down to the park lake. I said good evening to the tree that always greets me and always pulls my weary weakened body up the steep hill that is my reward.  I always fix my eyes upon her beauty and strength and she reaches out and carries me up the hill. With gratitude I always stop, say 'thank you' and then bow and with hands to my heart whisper 'namaste.'  

On my way up the hill my eyes fixed as they do but my heart heard a sound that created fear. Cresting the hill I saw a tree cutter beginning to cut her down. I confess my will to weak to stop the tears. I stood fixed and in disbelief. My friend. The young man walked over and with a gentle voice said "It's dead." Correcting his "it" I replied, "She always carries me up the hill. She is so beautiful." And with that I bowed and whispered 'namaste' and began to walk away. The young man called out and brought me a branch. Blog one would have ended here with a heavy heart and sweet tears. 

Blog two found its birth after darkness. Stumbling with eyes that cannot see in the dark, I scurried out and down the street with the moon guiding my feet. I could see the shadows of her lower branches stacked only the main trunk remained. I knelt and left an offering of corn meal upon the ground and her cut branches. It is a Native American gift back to the earth. With a final namaste and bow, touching the earth,  I whispered "good night" not good-bye. 

"Be still my heart, these great trees are prayers." ~ Tagore

Equinox Encore

Within the cupped hands of the timeless, the changeless and the changing rest. The seasons have changed only for those whose source of life returns to the roots awaiting winter's meditation. For the changeless the sap remains, not as strong, but enough to hold their adornment.  The timeless stands, weathered perhaps, but without sap it stands in its strength.

A picture to capture the beginning and continuation of all seasons. Like the dance of the soul unpretentious, flamboyant, graceful strength, stilled and lifted and a final pirouette. Tis the autumn equinox and the timeless holds forth Her cupped hands and gift, whispering, 'Encore."

Leaf rain

I chose to go walk by the park lake in the thunder and rain. It was a solitary walk, save for the fish jumping, a Nuthatch, Robin and two I know not their names.  At times only the curtain of rain then a quick change to the steam of the heated earth.  I walked in the silence of a heart unheard. The thunder echoing the plea'd pain beating within.  For some reason I sat upon the grass and knew the touch of rain upon the earth.  A leaf hitched a ride on a raindrop and landed on my arm. A gentle touch. A whisper without words.  I knew my heart was not alone in her plea'd pain.  And the thunder rolled.

Layered plea

 I walked and begged the sweet Hands of Life to stop the forest fires, to quench the fire’s hunger and save the sweet earth.  Her sweet Hands changed my words and in my asking, asked back another question to me.  I heard my voice, my plea, whisper “quench the fire’s hunger not in punishment but in love.”  Nature is not arbitrary.  It is the nature of fire to burn.  To feel anger or worse towards the fire is to deny a part of nature herself. 

Please sweet Hands of Life, embrace the fire.  Quench the fire’s hunger not in punishment but in love.  Stop the scarring of the earth.  

Perhaps, in this prayer and meditation, teach me, to do likewise with the fires burning the sweet earth of my soul. And then to join you in Love's embrace.

Sound of flight

There's the silence of grief. The silence of alone. The silence of two people sharing words with only their presence. The silence of sunrise. The silence between verses of poetry or between the tympani's beat. The silence of snow falling at night or flowers blooming.


As I watched the silence of birds soaring, a swallow dropped from the sky and flew beside me, not once but twice, so I could hear the silence broken by the sound of wings rushing by me. The sound of flight. I descended the mountain, bound by gravity, looking upward to see again, the sound of flight.

Did not see

I studied the birds and the squirrels. I had watched where they hopped and scampered. I walked the area of their feeding and knew well where the seed fell.  I was certain I was safe spraying the weed killer in those patches where they were breaking the cement.  My arms not strong enough to use the gas tool that would cut them down, the chemical was my only choice. I did not use it carelessly, I was deliberate and conscious of every spot I would spray.  And as I sprayed I saw a moth struggling and knew immediately I had not been as conscious as I thought.


The butterfly lives hundreds of miles away from where I was spraying, but it brought to mind the Theory of Chaos.  Everything is connected.  If a butterfly flaps its wings in Borneo it is part of the tornado that slashes its way through Kansas.  We are connected with all of life.  We know that somehow, but yet we don't comprehend it fully.  Everything I do, or don't do, is connected to something else, someone or something.  If I could truly embed that in my soul, I think my life would be very different. 


 "In Lak' ech" - Mayan for "you are my other me".  A pondering that is, in part, responsible for these ramblings and ponderings.  A tiny, but beautiful moth, I did not know existed, in its struggle and death, has become both the victim of my actions and my teacher.  I can replace the patio cement.  Nature will give birth to another moth.  But life is absent that one moth because I did not see.  "In Lak' ech" - Life is my other me.