A couple weeks ago, I went to the woods across the street and stood in the snow, listening. I told the woods that I loved them, and I rested in the peace that I feel among the trees.
My mind wandered, and I realized that for more than half of my adult life, I have been totally financially dependent on my husband. Although this seems like the best choice for our family, it weighs on me. I had been looking forward to developing our farm and bringing in some more money, but now it looks like that plan will be delayed for several years while I give most of my energy to mothering.
"You don't make money either," I told the trees offhandedly. Then something completely new happened. The trees answered me, quickly, in a way that I could understand.
"That's right," they said. "We don't make any money. But we make songs." I nodded. I hear the songs when I listen carefully. They vibrate up to the sky like chords played on an enormous guitar. "You make songs too," they said.
"We make light," they continued. I nodded again, because I have seen in this light as well. "You make light, too," they told me. "And that is enough. It is more than enough."
If this had happened several years ago, I might've been terrified, but I wasn't. If the trees were giving sage advice, I wanted to make the most of it, so I asked a question that has been weighing on us for a few years.
"What do you think we should do with our farm? What should we grow?" I asked. I waited, but if they had any advice, I could not understand it. I was starting to feel kind of excited.
"You're getting a little riled up here," the trees said. "You can be more like us. Stand tall and let the peace flow through you." I did my best, and again I felt the peace of the trees soothing and strengthening me. I decided it was probably time to go home and took a few steps in that direction, but then another thought occurred to me.
"Was it wrong to ask you the question about the farm?" I asked. "When should I be talking to you, and when should I be praying to God?"
"It is very important to praise God," the trees said. "Feel the ground and how solid it is. God is like that. Praise God as you touch the ground. Now look up at the sky and feel the power and joy that trembles there. Praise God like that. Now go home."
I thanked them, went home, and have not gone back there since that day. I will though. I'll go back.
Oh, Friend. You really speak to my condition here. Thank you so much for this post.
ReplyDeleteModern druids pray thusly: they stand in a circle, hold hands, and imagine roots growing down into the ground. They imagine branches growing from their heads. They imagine those branches all intertwining together.
ReplyDeleteAlthough I am not a neopagan druids, I find myself praying this way, often, but in a solitary way. This post reminded me of that. Thank you!
Hi Cat and Haddayr!
ReplyDeleteI'm so happy you were both touched by the post.
It's so fun to "see" you here, Haddayr! And it makes me so happy to picture you praying with trees.
Your comment about the druids brought to the surface a concern that I've been holding for a very, very long time. I earnestly want to be a "good" Christian and a "good" Conservative Quaker, but talking with trees is not something I see modeled much among others who feel called that way -- with the major exception of Jesus, who talked matter of factly with trees and wind. And there's St Francis of Assisi, and others as well, but culturally, right now, in the US -- I feel lonely. I worry that people will think that I'm not really a Christian at all. When I sit in prayer, I am asked again and again to lay these worries aside.
It feels so important and rich to me to stay grounded in the tradition that has called me to it. And yet, I often remember talks I've had with my friend (Matt!) who is Buddist. His Buddist stories sometimes cast a new light on Bible stories that touch on similar themes. After hearing his marvelous stories, I am able to love the Christian stories even more.
I will remember you and the druids when I visit the woods today.
Hi, Elizabeth; you don't know me, but I'm a friend of Haddayr's who thought (rightly, I think) that I would benefit from checking out your blog. I'm a conservative (religiously, that is) non-denominational Christian after growing up Methodist. Anyway, I couldn't help but respond to this with this thought:
ReplyDeleteDo you remember the story of Elijah in the cave? He'd just put himself about as far out on a limb as you can go, to the extent the queen had declared him a dead man by the next day. I've always been fascinated by this particular story, partly because of how Elijah, mere hours after being a participant in a big showy miracle, could be so convinced that it was all hopeless, and partly because of this part:
"And, behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the LORD; but the LORD was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the LORD was not in the earthquake: And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice."
If the voice of God isn't in the quiet moments of nature, I think it's news to Elijah.
One of the things I miss about the religious camping retreats of my youth is how we were encouraged to go find an isolated spot outdoors -- these were usually in a canyon area in west Oklahoma, and I'd go sit by myself amongst the sounds of nature and the feel of the cool morning wind and the damp of the remaining dew and I can't think of a time in my life I've ever felt closer to God than that.
So if you hear the small still voice in the trees? I think you're doing it right.