Here is a poem that is my muse, my place of peace, my reminder of surrender. In the spaces between the letters and words I find refuge and can curl up like a child, safe, on the forest floor it creates for me. In its simple cadence I hear the voice of an owl, the beckoning of a 100-year old oak tree, and the mystery wisdom of the tree-dweller than inhabits it. I have this poem posted at my desk at work and come back to it every so often, just when I need to remember…
Stand still. The trees ahead and the bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat is as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it an be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you,
If you leave it you may come back again, saing Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree of bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.