“In the hollows of quiet places we may meet,
the quiet places where is neither moon nor sun,
but only the light as of amber and pale gold
that comes from the Hills of the Heart.
There, listen at times: there
you will call, and I hear: there
will I whisper, and that whisper will come to you
as dew is gathered into the grass, at the rising of the moon.”
— Fiona MacLeod The Silence of Amor
“A man is walking in a field
and everywhere at his feet
in the short grass of April
the small purple violets
are in bloom. As the man walks
the ground drops away,
the sunlight of day becomes
a sort of darkness in which
the lights of the flowers rise
up around him like
fireflies or stars in a sort
of sky through which he walks.”
– Wendell Berry, IV Leavings
I am writing this one as I move through it. I yelled at myself and stated the question…Whyyyy would anyone want to read a post before it was done, and why might they come back over and over, without getting annoyed??
Another part laughed and thought that the selection: The Path, was a great one. If I am waking up, what will I do with it. Have I been ‘lost’ and off of my ‘path’? I feel like it. The laughing part says..shhhh, listen to the dew on each blade of grass as you move through the sound and move through the tree place with your mind. Remember, you can do that!!
The sun is coming up. Trees are moving in their slow tree ways. Heavier drops fall through greenery to the floor of the praying circle near the Tree of Many Faces. Morning birds and butterflies flit from hidden leaf to hidden stem of weed and plant. All, spin and turn and each do their job, as created to do.
I wonder, do they wonder if they have a path, is it right or wrong?
Shush, keep moving, now stand still listen and feel the waking space of ground.
Follow swaying root down, reaching limb up, light and air and water sparkle touch each and all.
“We do not inspire and expire fully and entirely enough, so that the wave, the comber, of each inspiration shall break upon our extremist shores, rolling till it meets the sand which bounds us, and the sound of the surf comes back to us.”
– Henry David Thoreau