journal notes 1-28-12
...the rustle of the Beech leaves,like beige paper that is much too unique to fall to the forest floor.I hear and appreciate you.Shiver and show us your disdain for the brisk wind.Stubborn ferns, still green and poking up to gain the sun's notice.
Is this a pew that I sit in and listen to the crow choir?Is this wood a chapel?I know this-it calls me to worship as though it were a loud bell tolling in a tower.
The forest floor is littered with the seeds of the next generation of oaks,scattered carelessly,half hidden by dead leaves.No one stayed up all night planning this or helped it along.The acorns grew,fell and if they are in a happy spot,they will send down green shoots into the rich soil.Transformation.
...the flood plain spreads out before me with its broken timber and pools of water.When I look from here,it seems that if I started walking I would see nothing but trees to the Pacific.That illusion is all I need.
When I am in the woods,listening,my pen travels the page with a spryness as if the ink has melted into glittery paint.But, I have to sit quietly for fifteen minutes or so before this happens.My inside skin and mind have to settle into the sacred before this change occurs.My pen seems to know when it's happening.
Today,by chance,I found something from a kindred soul who wandered around the woods in the 12th century.Maybe I am on the right track here:" "I have no other Masters but the Beeches and Oaks.".St.Bernard of Clairvaux
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