I stand beside a tree reach out my hand and touch its gnarled trunk where the scars of time lay weathered in undulating ridges of knobbly wood and granulated particles pressed together to mark the passing of time I run my fingers along the path the squirrels ran as they played a wild game of tag up into its branches to that place where they nestle together through the long cold nights of winter beating its icy winds against the sheltering limbs they call their home. And I hear the sweet song of a robin returning to the nest it built high above the ground to keep its babies safe until they are strong enough to fly free like the wind far from the sheltering limbs of this tree they once called home. I lean my weary body against the tree and close my eyes as if closing them will block the sight of the scars of time passing and the disquiet of these times of isolation and worry that do not weather well in my troubled mind stirring up thoughts that grip my heart with the fear this place I call my home no longer holds a safe place to breathe. And the tree stands tall swaying with the wind welcoming the seasons into its branches and I hear the whispers of time running through its sap in juicy fecund certainty that this too shall pass with time passing. “Rest here," the swaying branches and rustling limbs seem to say, "Rest here and lay you burdens down. Here, where my weathered trunk meets the earth and my roots dig deep into the soil holding me steady in the ice cold winds of winter and the long hot days of summer.” And I take a breath deep into my bones and feel the warm sweet nature of the air around me enter my body. I breathe out and imagine all my worries sinking down into Mother Earth’s fertile womb and I feel my heart beat slow and my breath flow in and out with ease. And the earth and the tree and the squirrels sleeping in the hollow and the robin nesting in its limbs breathe with me in the sacred nature of all of life on this planet we call our home.
I do not know why I took this picture of a tree yesterday, but, as I walked through the woods and Beaumont the Sheepadoodle ran through the winter dry grasses, this tree called to me.
I clicked a couple of shots and Beaumont and I continued on our way.
And then, at 2am, I awoke with the words of this poem rustling through the sleep soaked crevices of my mind.
I got up and left my beloved sleeping in our bed. I padded quietly into the living room where Beaumont slept on the sofa. He barely raised his head to acknowledge my intrusion before falling back to sleep.
I opened my laptop where it sits on the desk in front of the front window of our home that overlooks the tree-lined banks of the Bow. And I began to write in the quiet warmth of night resting peacefully inside our home.
Outside, darkness shrouds the world. On the deck, white Christmas lights twinkle along its glass enclosure.
A streetlight shimmers on the river’s surface where it passes under the bridge.
The sky is heavy. No stars on this cloudy night.
And I sit writing.
It is not what I’d thought of earlier for today’s post. Thank goodness WordPress lets me schedule it for posting at a more practical hour. Perhaps when this posts, I shall be sleeping once again.
The muse… I’m not sure she sleeps and she’s definitely not as practical as WP. She likes to have her way with my creative expressions.
I just wish she’d be a little more thoughtful about the time she chooses to stir my imagination and awaken my creative juices to the desire to listen to my heart and flow free.