Nature As A Sacred Text

I go down to the shore in the morning and depending on the hour the waves are rolling in or moving out, and I say, oh, I am miserable, what shallwhat should I do? And the sea says in its lovely voice: Excuse me, I have work to do.

Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings, p. 1

© 2012 by NW Orchard, LLC

First published by Penguin Press 2012

Running away

5 hours north

My buddies and I

Finally reach this carpet of beauty

standing transfixed by nature’s luxurious annual gift

These fall colors.

I go down to the shore in the morning

and depending on the hour the waves

are rolling in or moving out,

and I say, oh, I am miserable,

what should I do? And the sea says

in its lovely voice:

Excuse me, I have work to do.

seduce my eyes.

I’m drowning in jouissance.

The presence of the lake this morning ,calm

The glassy mirrored surface reflecting the regimental

yellow trees of the shoreline.

The lake, the trees

The water exclaims!

“Be quiet there’s work to be done.”

Bestowing their grace and rewarding the reverance

With my flowing heart…

There is a silence in the forest that is quieter than silence,

A stillness in the moist foliage under my boots.

The smell of the moist leaves is a unique scent.

That calms the memory from its wounds.

After the morning of mist and cloud , the sun

bursts forth through a thick grey cloud cover.

Shining a new light on the shimmering leaves

Gracing us above the forest line

There is a slight breeze making the perfection of the day complete.

In the red painted cabin in the woods

The wood-burning fire warms my chilly hands.

But the smoke makes me dizzy.

Also euphoric

Suddenly I awaken to the precious moment.

And gratitude for everything

Accepting finally the reality as is

The world as is.

Without ideology

Without hate

For a moment

Just love.

These trees are the letters of a sacred text.

The cloudy white atmosphere, the space between the letters

The water below, the vowels that give it meaning.

And I the reader in bowed posture

Attempting to decipher the message.

Stop in my tracks…

Listening to Her in the leaves

She is crying.

She is wounded.

Too much blood

Absorbed

In the moist ground below me

Where I am treading

Is sacred.

Indian voices

Native American cries

Are not extinguished.

“Who are you to have come here.

To drink in our sacred tapestry

Without our assent?”

Time has not assuaged the violence done to us.

Nor has the grassy bank silenced our presence for centuries.

And elsewhere she screams for nations steeped in violence.

Fighting as we speak in the Holy Land

The horror has returned.

The unspeakable is present.

The images too much to bear.

She is in pain.

And inflicts pain because we failed Her.

A pogrom here a massacre there

Gets our attention.

To the demonic.

In this silent place

A forest sanctuary

There is a sanity for a moment.

A clarity intuited but not understood.

Before we return home to the front line