Forest Bathing and Finding the Divine.
I close my eyes as I lean against the tree, quieting my mind in silent meditation. I breathe deeply, inhaling the soft, earthy fragrance of the forest.
Browsing Tag:
forest
Phoenix. {poetry}
Have you ever fallen lower than you thought you could bear, until you finally surrender to love again, because it is the great fire that burns in you?
Wild Medicine: Be Like The Prairie.
I inhaled all the pieces of my story, my internal breath like the wind washing over me, jostling gently out some of the emotional and energetic debris.
Do I Really Know? {poetry}
Do I, a singular human, truly know the whole story? Is it possible that evolution is happening in the wake of destruction?
Into the Sweet Darkness.
We must be or become willing to allow ourselves to enter the dark cocoon or cave in the depths of our own forest. It awaits discovery.
You Are Safe in This Wilderness.
I cannot connect with the idea of a calling that can be translated perfectly into a paycheck, a position, or a fixed identity associated with something I do. If I have one, my vocation is to be alive, to listen quite literally to my body and its rhythms: Every. Single. Moment. And to honor and ...
I Am Made and Destroyed by the Heat of Love.
Love is nothing but an endless series of questions, a sharp set of teeth in your valves, and an undying devotion to being awake because sleep is rendered useless. Love is everything including the very slowness of minutes when you await affection, the unbearable desire of wanting to fit yourself ...
Where Do I Go To Escape?
We all have those places we run to, the places we retreat to, in the recesses of our minds, in the dark corners, under the covers or out in a sunlit field. I asked myself, as I ask you, where is your space? What do you claim as your calm, your quiet, your escape? Where is that safe space in ...
I Am Capable. {poetry}
There are many things I can do (even those things don’t have to be perfect), whether silly or small, or things I only do for myself. They don’t have to be shiny things wrapped up with bows. I could be a great pessimist, or the best at ruining pancakes because I flip them too soon. The point is ...
In These Woods Alone: The Ecstatic Ache Of Creation.
The air grows heavy with the texture of sound, but the weight increases so slowly, so minutely, that if you walked into these woods alone you would begin to lose hold of your sanity, would wonder at the buzzing in your ears that fattens and develops into voices in your head as surely and as ...