Sing Again

I walked and I waited beneath gray skies and syncopated rain. I could not find a reason to stay, yet I could not find it in my heart to leave. The birds sang sweetly in the middle of the day.


I envied the courage of the deep purple crocuses when they joined in song, not caring that they might die tomorrow.

The language of the senses spoke, wrapping around me like a tight fitting glove. In order to stir me, the wind blew through the outer edge of the Pine Grove. The giant White Pines called in separate creaking voices to remind me of their presence. I stopped and listened like it was the first time. [It was not, but then again it was].

I heard what they had to say and with the guidance of my inner compass, I was able to follow the conversation. Distinctive pitches swirled gracefully above within the highest green boughs stretched up towards the sky. An urgent cacophony of voices begged to be heard and then subsided, dying down to one deep, ancient voice of the eldest White Pine, commanding peace and order.

When the wind ceased, the silence tormented me. Was it greedy to want more from all possible voices of this green earth? I think not. It is with love, joy and concern that I hear messages woven within an earthly tapestry of sacred harmony.

The weeping clouds passed overhead, pausing long enough to witness the truth, yet not long enough to quench the ground [so ripe within].

I was grateful for the crow that flew fretfully from one woody branch to the next in an effort to stir the wind. Losing patience and yearning to awaken, I climbed onto the Prayer Rock and waited for the mournful choir of the Pine Grove to sing again.

Journal: Babies Breath

The Proverbial Pathway - Another Day

At the break of day when I do not feel fruitful, I go into the woods to sing. I sit on the Prayer Rock to witness the immeasurable canvas sprawled before me, touched by the paintbrush of creation. The sun beckons to all upturned faces, living on the margins of winter, anticipating spring and the promise of re-birth.

I revel in cosmic chaos – the pulsation of sound amplified by miracles orchestrated in wind, bird and brook songs (accompanied by the rattling of last season’s leaves that cling tightly to the branches in the Ash Grove, awaiting new growth). I look to where the anxious mountains melt away the last traces of snow where my friend, the red tail hawk, circles above.

I wander down the proverbial pathway, lingering before the roses, exposed yet rooted in love as they stand naked, desperate for the return of their aromatic blooms to cover their vulnerability. Intoxicated by their scent, reckless in their presence and wildly imperfect, I am willing to bleed.

Further down the pathway, the remnants of milkweeds – the host plant for Monarchs and others – sway tenderly in the wind releasing the last few silky white strands, transporting papery brown seeds. I watch them float indecisively to the opposite slope.

Before it becomes a bit of a marsh, I head towards the spring pond that exists long enough for peepers to come out and sing and lay eggs for future prosperity. Predictably, the chorus halts as I approach. I catch a glimpse of an olive green frog – a possible prince during the essence of my becoming – before he disappears under the shelter of a faded bouquet of oak and maple leaves that float on the surface. A smile emerges from within as I spot at least a thousand eggs in various clumps knowing that soon it will be tadpole bliss.

I then sit on a mossy stump beside the twin trunks of two immense trees which shelter life amongst gnarled, trailing roots. The trees embrace, knowing that a love like this is rare and only threatened by the woodsman’s ax. I think if I were a tree I would want this and if I were a small creature I would live somewhere within.

To bathe in the woods is to draw strength from Nature’s womb. The milk of Our Mother nourishes my creative soul. So another day ends and another moon rises.

Journal: Babies Breath

Creativity and a Killing Frost - Nature and Art

Thawing and re-freezing can certainly shake the creative energy of a natural artist. The imbalance of our environment may prove to be a challenge if not acknowledged and treated suitably. I found myself wondering why I froze, which is a quandary since I do not believe in writer's block (and the like) and prefer to accept nature in Her raw form (pertaining to myself as well).

So, I decided to allow the blank page to serve as a tool for re-opening the passageway to my creative essence, trusting that I would get to the bottom of it [deep creative freeze]; and I did. Apparently, my bond to nature is reflected in my reaction to the recent thawing and refreezing of my surroundings. As much as we [as a species] separate ourselves from and try to harness nature; we are very much a part of Her. We have strayed away from our original state of being; however our authentic connection to Our Mother still resonates deeply within. For some this force is more profound than in others.

When allowing myself to merge with the record breaking temperatures by digging in the earth, planting, meandering curiously through the woods, walking barefoot in the mud and snowfield – I started a flow that was promptly interrupted by Our Mother as She reeled us all back in, maintaining balance and returning us to where we should be.

Like the early opening buds of trees, plants and bushes; I responded to the premature warmth, light and melting away of winter. I sat outdoors under the clear canopy of stars while the thunderous night chorus of peepers stirred my heart. I acknowledged how wrong high temperatures [reaching the upper 80’s] are in Northern New England in mid-March. The innocent, childlike part of me wanted to enjoy it, but the intelligent, knowing part of me was aware of the reality of this radical climate change.

I surrendered. I finally removed the sap buckets from the Maple trees and aligned my thinking towards gratitude rather than loss of what could have been. In a tank top and shorts, I planted seeds that were okay to plant when the ground is workable and can handle a frost. I rejoiced that there were no bugs. I went with the insanity and waited for what came next.

With the return of frigid temperatures, (well beyond a killing frost) strong north winds blow hard through the swaying pines. I bundle up in my flannel shirt, winter hat and collect dead wood to stoke the fire.

The crocuses and snowdrops, which wilted in unfamiliar heat, are thriving now. Except for the deepest part of the shaded woods, the snow is gone. Strewn about like abandoned wreckage, autumn remains in decayed brownish remnants. The pond is freezing again.

The night chorus, which was double forte a few nights ago, has diminished into regretful silence. The mountain streams that rushed over and under ground have been humbled to reassuring, melodious quietude. My footsteps – faithful to the cold, frozen in the mud – follow the old logging road, leaving a memory of what was, promising to flourish again. Together we wait.

Journal: Babies Breath