Yes, I’m feeling the love. This old oak is in my new front yard, shedding acorns as I write. There’s hundreds of tiny saplings in the garden beds. She’s a prolific mama. I’m starting to settle in even though we haven’t got internet connected yet. Being online at the library has it’s benefits, until the woman with the loudspeaker announces imminent closing and I’m halfway through a post. Apologies to everyone … my time is up!
It’s all about testing the depth, advised the hollow log. Yes, the spaces within hold the key. Turn your mind to the no-thing, grasp the edge, touch the core. Reach beyond, sang the cracks, feel and explore.
It seemed the nest was just the size to grow new wings and learn to fly. Breathe in then out, respire and soften. Bring your love and sing here often.
She searched high and low for the perfect nest. Of course she could sleep on the sand, repose on a bed of leaves, lie on a rock. But somehow life had become complicated. There were things to store and art to make and she wanted a home. This made a mockery of all the transient people, forced to move by forces so dark that the sun struggled to rise above the edge. With that in mind, she climbed.
She’s lost her head, they said, shaking their own in order to be. There’s rules, they whispered, a little too loudly. Your dreams are for slumber. Don’t walk in the wilds.
So she wandered a little, too far down their path, and found that she lost whatever was needed. It suited the moment, for paths can be winding, deceptively sinuous, but always on track. But little by little, her footprints diminished. One day she looked and the ground lay bare.
Sigh.
The trees stood naked and just kept on growing. The grass died in Autumn. The moon rose and fell. The rain bled on hard times. The days met the night sky. The sun met uncertainty and wind fallowed wild. The path kept on winding, receptively open. The journey lay forward. She didn’t look back.
Jeni McMillan 