I’ve been away on a trip to Bulgaria, to the beautiful wedding of two dear friends, so that’s why the blog has been a little quiet. I’ve seen, felt and experienced a lot, and I hope to write about it. For now I found this little entry in my draft folder.
I sat in the forest and spoke with the rose. I saw the light between the trees, and remembered myself, the path I was threading.
I saw the sun in the still water, and felt I was never to leave myself to worry about others, but to do everything from my center, and to walk quietly, touching the earth.
AL RITORNO DI TEMPI PERDUTI Charles Amable Lenoir (1860–1926)
A post from my draft folder, dated May 6
I stand by the open window, listening to the birds of the evening, the world painted blue.
Today I’ve been walking from one thing to the next, writing in-between. I’m not sure where all the hours went, the day already gone, slipping behind the mountains.
I wish now that I had a proper journal to write in, to gather my words, to care for them, to keep them safe and loved. A large spiral bound journal, that wraps around itself so I can write freely, unconstrained.
Language of the World
I wonder if there is a language of the world, that the trees speak, the wind and the flowers, birds, every living thing, even people when we remember to watch and listen.
Reading Corrag makes me think of such a language, and perhaps that’s what moves through me when I stand still, watching the sky, listening to the wind in the trees, the little stream I love so much, with its silver song.
Once I looked to the mountains and thought I saw God in them, and that He was in the sky as well, in everything. Perhaps this is how he teaches us, through the natural world he created, the stars, and gathering dusk, the long silent voice of nature, whispering in the wind, in us.
Sometimes I feel asked to remember. What I’m not sure. The place I came from? Those that are with me when I dream, that I can never see?
Sometimes I think I can glimpse a green meadow, and sunlight, a distant memory not from this life. Green hills, a grey stormy ocean. Perhaps it is the afterlife calling, glimmering like white light, that was once home. I was there and now I’m here, and I’m asked to remember, to walk, to search, to be in love.
There are so many things we can learn and do while we are here, this short breath between realms.
Beautiful things makes me want to write, nature, and the words of others
Knitting the wind
Artist – Joan Brull
I want to find my way back to myself, so that I may remember who I am. Honor the silent call within me, and see where it leads me.
I want to write whatever comes, without worrying if its good of bad, or feel that I need to prove something, say something wise or beautiful. I just want to string words together because it feels like healing, feels like a release. I’m so good at silencing myself, but it creates pain; – thoughts, feelings staying locked in my body, going deeper until I ache.
I will write what is true, in the moment.
I feel something needs to be expressed, come out, be born, or reborn as I walk this road back to myself, to who I really am.
Thank you for listening.
The morning is beautiful. The mountain is all gold behind me, the lake still as glass, the mist hovering close to a pale blue sky.
I went for a short walk, and experienced the first frost of the season. I could feel the bite in the air, see the faint touch of silver on grass and leaves. I thought I saw the moon in the water, and realized it was still visible in the sky.
I wonder now, how much time can I spend on my writing. It’s a very slow thing. I find myself reading a lot, and just staring out the window.
It was a fight to get here, but at least I showed up, even though it hurts, even though it’s scary and hard, and wonderful, all at the same time.
These are the moments when I’m slowly opening up like a flower in spring, amazed at what proper nourishment can do. The nourishment being long stretches of time alone, of walking, of writing, of reading, of staring out the window. And allowing it all. Then the sounds and sights enter me in a totally different way, in a new way, deeper way, touching strings of beauty inside of me.
I love being in a place that’s so quiet I can hear the birds clearly. Sometimes one comes and looks at me through the window. I’m not sure he knows I’m here. It’s always the black and yellow ones that come, the small birds who seem to live in the birch trees outside my apartment.
A couple of days ago one flew into my kitchen, and sat at the top of my cabinet, looking at me. I opened up all the doors, letting the place get freezing cold, before he finally realized he could fly out.
I’m amazed at how quickly the sun sets now. I relaxed yesterday, then did the dishes, and as I put on my jacket to go for a walk, I noticed how close the sun was to the mountains, just about to disappear behind them, and it wasn’t even 6 pm yet.
I went to my little spot overlooking the lake, and looked at the fading light in the water. I couldn’t seem to enjoy it; something in me felt restless, and I soon returned inside. It had been an interesting day. I had started writing again, just for myself, in my journal.
I also explored a new path in a different town. I crossed a bridge over a wide river, and felt fear, though I knew the bridge was safe. I felt so tiny compared to all that water, rushing below me. I realized there was something about that, something about not quite trusting life.
I sat down close to that river, and wrote in my journal. Mostly though I sat with my face to the sun, seeing it between the trees, amazed at all the colors around me. I wrote;
“Thank you divine mother, for this moment”, and wished it would last for a long time.
Then I read some, and learned that Jesus said “fear not” more than anything else.
Autumn Colors. So beautiful. I look out the window and I’m instantly moved. Gold. Red. Yellow. Green. Everything is alight and on fire. The mountains beyond the lake is dotted with trees of gold.