The Whole World in Tree Rings

On afternoon walks with Pasha, my pace 

is slow, reverent, my voice, hushed. 

My small friend's enthusiasm is contagious.   

On a cushion of moss, the remains of a mourning dove.

I wonder if it was one of the pair that often 

pecks around in the garden.  

I wonder at the vibrancy of the moss, 

even though we've had months of drought.

We have our places: the places where we always pause.

 The huge split boulder is a favorite. I call it the 

"whispering stone", because when I sit there, I whisper. 

 Its where we first met the barred owl the year we moved here. 

A flash of white in a tree, then she was perched on a 

branch near us - watching. Pasha saw her, too, as he 

rolled on the soft forest floor near the pond. I got up 

to move closer to him, just in case, but knowing he 

was much too big a critter for her. I thought that would 

be the end of our visit with the owl, but she didn't 

mind my movement at all. We sat, all three of us in the 

same, small circle of hemlocks for an hour. Me not 

wanting to lose a moment of encounter, Pasha hanging with 

me because that's what he does, and the owl because this is

her place, I guessed. She jumped around from limb to limb, 

focussed on the ground, and very little on us, until 

the blue jay came and pierced the silence with 

loud warning cries.  

Towering hemlocks hide all kinds of 

creatures, and only if we don't seem threatening, 

do we get a glimpse. Root systems

wrapped around stone ledges - dark 

hiding places everywhere. 

I took a slight detour on my usual path and found my 

drawings in the scars of an old tree. I thought of all the 

things you wrote in response to my drawings - 

time, tree time, finger prints, labyrinths, and suddenly 

you were all with me on my walk... you from Australia, 

England, Wales, Atlanta, South Africa, Canada - the whole 

world in the rings of a tree...

A tree shouting red through branches - 

releasing the fire of summer. 

Back in the clearing, 

only a small bit of wood left to stack. I stacked 

a cord one day and that got me over the hump. 

I'm waiting for a slow moment in my work-life to get

 back to fall tasks. I find comfort in a stocked shed and the 

clinking sound of well seasoned wood. I think 

the squirrels know what I mean.  

Mums dress up the front step, and the nicotiana is 

tall and hanging on until the first frost which the 

grocer said is coming this weekend. 

Our owl friend came to visit the other day, briefly.

I haven't had a good visit with her in years, so 

I was excited when I saw her perched in her spot 

in the dead hemlock. Folks say I should cut that tree 

down, but I know she likes it. 

She stayed until someone made a racket on the road 

with a loud truck. The moment she tucked in her head 

just so, I knew she would fly.... 

Hair and Bone and Hide...

There is a place I visit 

when weary in my heart,

of who we have become 

and how we have forgotten. 

The journey there is long, 

through cave, mountain, and remembering. 

 I crunch through lightly falling snow, 

trail of woodsmoke 

and cedar scented air. 

Wind blows delicate flakes in bursts and

breathes through tribes of swaying, reaching pines. 

It is night. 

When I reach the glowing shelter, 

flakes die,

stars are born. 

Soft drumbeats and low voices 

hum together from inside. 

I bend and enter

 a flickering world of fire 

and women, 

wrapped in blankets and furs, 

singing songs of moss.

Hair and bone and hide

bound and tethered and known. 

I sit without a word, 

meeting 

- soul to soul-

 the ancient one, 

keeping rhythm 

with antler and broken heart. 

Gentle sounds of rattles, 

shake me into presence. 

I am here, 

as I am, 

nothing more to do or say or be. 

The eyes of each one gathered here, 

 knows of death, 

and of going beyond. 

A raw, exquisite knowing - 

running through the forest, 

hunting a life worth living,

glancing and grinning, 

at the toothless shadowed one, 

running along beside. 

Breathing 

together 

in this circle, 

 drums and rattles and crows,

building, weaving, praying,

there is no forgetting who I am, 

or what I am to do, 

or that owls,

bears, 

and stones, 

are breathing with 

me, 

too. 

*   *   *

This was to be a quick post.... get out my journal, and copy this bit of writing I did over a year ago, that I keep coming back to. It is another day of low, lingering mists, a day when   the forest calls me deep inside myself, and into the shadows between hemlocks and ledges and mysteries. A treasured kind of day, when the reason for my landing here is close to the surface. I used to think writing was easy.... but that was before... before what? Its a mystery. But as I typed the words above, things needed re-arranging, molding, no... more specifically, things need to be trimmed, cut down to bone. I think maybe I am beginning to understand how to write like I paint... but there are miles to go before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep. 

I once had a naturalist friend with an amazing collection of feathers from all over the world. He lent them to me for a time and I felt as though I had come home to my body- a winged body of myths and flights. Once, I called a friend (fire spinning Lita) to take photos of me with them. Soon after, the feathers were returned, had to be, it is illegal to have them, unless one is a scientist or native with tribal papers.... but I knew I belonged to those feathers, and the brief moment when they lived with me taught me more than a lifetime of schooling.