As the Forest Weeps...

Part of my morning ritual these days is spending time in meditation followed by reading from my dear friend and mentor, Christine Valters Paintner’s brilliant book, The Artist’s Rule: nurturing your creative soul with monastic wisdom. This practice is providing a lovely container for both my creative side (as I embark upon NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month) and my deepening spiritual practice (after returning from a 10-day silent meditation retreat.)

“Giving form to our creative ideas is about being seen and witnessed and entering into relationship with the world.” Christine Valters Paintner

With so much creativity and nourishment flowing around me these days, it’s fun to notice what wants to arise and take form in each moment. One would think with a word count looming over me (1667 per day), I would dive into my novel first thing. However, it seems as though the following window into my retreat has taken first place in the “forming” line today. It’s a bit personal—and most definitely vulnerable, but nonetheless, it is what I’m called to share today. Thank you for being my witness.

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Covered in my shroud of blue and amethyst, slowly, tenderly, I move onto the lower path—the one that calls me deeper into my sorrow. Deeper. Deeper. The rain drums inside a nearby gutter. Pounding. Beckoning. Pushing me forward. The forest cries with me. Breeze mixed with rain. Dampened leaves spread falling tears along my pathway.

My heart catches. No. No. No. Not this pain again. Again. Again. The forest weeps with me... and it sings... but mostly right now, today, in this moment, it weeps.

The grizzled tree blocks my path. Worn. Ancient. Bent. Strong. My forehead moves to touch its blackened bark like metal drawn to a magnet. The forest weeps with me. My head glued to the gnarled bark, we become one. Breathe. Breathe this in. The stillness. The smell of old and molded things. A hint of eucalyptus in the distance.

My feet plant more deeply into the ground. My ground. My earth. Wait... no “my.” Only “we.” The tree. Me. The sky. All boundaries disappear. My feet sprout roots and bury firmly into the earth. My torso grows strong and in this moment I know that the same life force that carries this grizzled, beautiful, thriving tree also carries me. No separation. No “it” or “you” or “I.” Only “we”... and we are strong and safe and free from suffering.

Slowly, slowly my head releases its purchase on the bark and I dip under the lowered branch—no small thing... at least two feet in diameter—and as I dip forward, a twin branch greets me at eye level, but this one is not charred. It is covered in soft green moss. Brilliant green. The color of life. Growth. Rebirth. Regeneration.

This old tree buried deep in the forest—probably hundreds of years old—has stood the test of time. It has been struck by lightning, split in two, reshaped and reformed dozens of times... and still it not only stands strong, but bursts with new life. With radiance and growth wherever my eye turns. Moss. Vines. Fresh leaves. Dying ones. All a part of life. Birds twitter in and out—one making me giggle out loud as it hangs upside down like a tiny marmoset. Finally (ultimately), nestled in the moss at eye level is a tiny acorn. Symbol of life.

The Universe has thrown off all restraint this day and greeted me with blessed assurance. Yes, I feel the pain. Again and again and again. But just like the clouds in the sky that have now parted, so has the ache in my heart. It leaves and it returns, but this time the pain is soft like the moss. I have not fought it. I have allowed it to sweep over me like the darkness at sunset and the breeze through the leaves. I have allowed it to be felt and seen and witnessed this day. Amen.