Skip to main content

Path to Peace

You have taken on one of the most difficult jobs in the Createdness, which is to be able to feel the lightest, most ephemeral energy vortex that you call God on a planet that is one of the densest in the universe. I call that courageous. --Bartholomew

Walking in the woods, my thoughts feel dense and real--just as dense and real as the dusty gravel path sending its jaggedness into the bottom of my feet.

The heaviness and pervasiveness of my thoughts attest to the fact that they do indeed exist in physical form, their movement no different than that of my own living, breathing, human body walking along, responding to the elements--the wind though my hair, the sun burning my back.

I can almost just touch my thoughts, feel their texture like the trunks of trees, thick and weighty, stubbornly stuck in one place, feeling some sense of nobility, with perhaps a dash of martyrdom thrown in, at holding up their heavy, gnarled branches and leaves.

I stop to watch the cows behind their barbed wire. I approach the fence, and the closest one darts away. I don't like that he is afraid of me. It feels personal. Can't he tell who is harmful and who isn't?

Seeing the horse next pasture over is just like passing him on the highway. That's how it is to see when you become your thoughts.

I begin to have a conversation with nature.

I know, I say to myself, there was a horse. Sorry horse, I can't really see you. My thoughts are heavy, and unfortunately for the moment, they feel here to stay.

There is the tiniest anticipation of release as I remember that I have shown up in the woods with the hopes of injecting some spaciousness into the dense form of my thoughts. Then the heaviness returns.

More conversation:

What if I just let myself feel what I am feeling? What if I can just be okay with leaving me be? What if I stop thinking that I should be able to find peace that is long lasting. What if I could just forget about my path to peace for now?

I feel some relief. I feel calmer giving myself permission to let myself be.

So, what is the feeling here?
It is sadness.
Can I just allow myself to be sad?
Yes, I can. Deep applause from cheering section within, always happy when I stop playing the resistance game.

The sadness intensifies, but if feels good to let it be there-- just letting it be there without trying to transform it into something better for the planet.

Oh, I see you purple wheat. You are beautiful. I remember when I first noticed you a while back--I remember seeing you so clearly. I was so smitten with your purpleness. You feel a universe away.

Oh, a hawk circling. Third one I've seen today. Hawks are symbolic of higher perception, of looking at life from a larger perspective. There is a message in that somewhere.

I feel a little ease knowing that bigger perception is the only way forward.

I walk a little ways and see the plethora of blackberry blossoms, that will soon yield abundant crops of delicious little purple jewels--for free! Yes, I remember how you made me fall in love with this place, with the Oregon summers--the first stirrings, like a quickening of new life in the womb.

I walk a little further, and realize that all that was magical to my experience feels a little deadened at the moment--and with it a realization: so, you are saying that I must choose peace. It has to be a choice. That is why you've brought me these challenges, that is why everything looks a little dimmer, because I am ready to choose peace, to find spaciousness that can encompass all the contrast--even the faded glory.

I make my way to a large oak tree. The wind picks up like crazy singing through the branches.

I look up and trace the trunk and all of its branches out into the sky. So many branches, so many possible shapes.

I meander through the summer meadows. There is the smell of rotting plants. Some of the early spring blooms are crunchy-dead, but ripe with seed pods.

Yes, nothing lasts. Everything has a season. I can choose to accept seasons.

There is some wisdom trying to penetrate, but it exists in a lighter energy, and can only sort of circle my dense thought forms. At least I am aware of its presence, even if I can't fully internalize it.

I make my way to the top of a hill with a large grove of oak trees. There are close to a dozen of these giants. The wind really picks up, and the trees are all talking at once.

Okay, I'm listening, what are you trying to tell me?

I stand still feeling the wind whipping my hair and the sun beating at my back. It is enough to distract me for a moment from the density of my thoughts.

I look up into the trees and for a moment I feel the wind lifting me, and the sun burning away the haze in my mind.

Such thick trunks holding all of these crooked branches reaching up into the sky, but even these giants cannot reach all the way to the heavens. Every branch, every knot, every clump of leaves, or lack thereof is exactly how it is supposed to be, as high as supposed to be, as straight or crooked as supposed to be, as trapped in one place as supposed to be.

Within all of their form is the story of their creation.

Thank you, trees. I hear you.

I take my gnarled thoughts, and I let them be for the night. I let them be with me. I let them tell me my story of my own formation; what's made me reach straight for the heavens, only to find myself slipping a little in my trajectory. It might cause my shape to lean a little to the side in the end--but my form will merely tell the story of how, for a moment, I lost heart--just until I was able to find my way back up to the sky again--but that it was always supposed to be this way.

I bid my thoughts and me, and all of you, goodnight, noticing how the hawk continues to circle high above all of us.


  1. I'm glad your walk in nature could help you find some mental and physical relief.

    Nature is fabulous and so available if we just open to it.

    Thanks for the reminder!

  2. I love the literal and metaphoric sense of path. Thank you for taking me with you on this stretch of the journey.

  3. Oh, what a splendid walk--so glad i got to go along.

    Your words are beautiful & i love reading them.


Post a Comment

♥ Thank you for taking the time connect with me here. ♥

Popular posts from this blog

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home. Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home. Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home. Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home. Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home. Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home. Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home. Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home. Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home. Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home. Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, mag


Photo by Ben Herbert on I’m standing on a cliff overlooking the water’s edge. The sky is present, hanging there in its vastness, holding this moment with symphonic strains of gray and electric buzz. Watching, suspended, sensing. I see to both sides of me vast white cliffs carved out by relentless grasping of the ocean extending down the coastline. The earth where I am standing up above gives just the right yield and welcome, with its soft grass and dainty yellow flowers, falsely giving the impression of delicacy, when anyone can see that they are hardy to withstand the harshness of forces here. There is an undeniable tightness of gravity here, pinning me down, tugging at me, slowing down my step. I feel as if this force could just sweep me away with the littlest of a flick, like an ant off the table. It screams danger while it beckons. My life had been recently taking on new grander design dimensions when this place and I met. Dating a new man, after being a singl

Partaking of the Fruit

Photo by Anya Vasilieva on What I most struggle with in creative writing is that there are some ideas that just feel like they belong in the ether, in the natural born clouds. They aren’t meant to be pinned down, and every time I try to pin them down into a practical form on a page, I wound them a little bit, and must throw them back up into the ether for repair, to restore their more nebulous characteristics. This content isn’t supposed to have legs and weight, and to make noise when it walks, or to have such things as a name and defining characteristics. Rather, just whiffs of possibility that hint at an undercurrent of parallel worlds so vast and amazing as to put any Tolkien or Rowling to shame. Its just supposed to hang there, ripe for plucking, but the plucker beware. The fruit bruises easily. And yet, there are those books that seem to pin down something that doesn’t maim the central cast of characters, and in fact broadens the material into something that change