Write now, this pen brings me into a space of possibility.
I let my body relax and discover where imagination wants to travel today. It is warm outside, birds sing and I dream of a summer at home on the farm, with no where to go, no one to be and I can disappear into the creative process of my words.
Still in this moment, as I listen to my hands rubbing against the pages of my journal, I am in the flow of words where I can let go of what is wanted, of all the decisions and expectations, and wonder after the unseen birds perched in the trees.
What new food have they found in their forages?
How many nestlings are they nourishing now?
New understanding arrives on the wings of these questions.
I have felt such deep sorrow of late, the letting go offering me an intimacy with grief. My heart has been attached to the stories I have told about who I am. Now these stories are changing… along with definitions of self. All have become weighted with compassion, forgiveness, connection.
This body too holds itself differently, able to hold others while feeling supremely held. This body which folds smiles and hugs and hours of conversation into itself, breathes with the love of so many and sweetly exhales into the blossoming of relationship.
Solitary walks on familiar mountain trails and gravel roads yield medicinal contemplation. My heart knows this landscape, for ten years it has walked its healing paths; ten years it has felt cradled by these cedars, firs and mossy stones; ten years it has called this verdant valley of three mountains, in the centre of this island, Home.