Wandering towards my sit spot today, I felt the familiar pull to drop my own plans and follow the quiet urging from nature, from my soul, from god, from spirit. I was guided to kneel down where I was on the side of the hill,to reach out ahead of me and gather in small handfuls of soil, dried leaves, small sticks, every part of the earth that lay before me.
It is the seeming randomness of the actions I'm guided to do that make them easy to dismiss, "What possible reason is there for me to do that?" But I've been listening lately, and following, and today I gathered up the earth in my hands. I lifted my hands up high in front of me, and the sunlight filtering through the trees made the brown leaves in my hand glow. And a prayer came: for my sister's friend who died of cancer just last week, leaving her two young children in this life. And a prayer for my mother's vibrant, strong young friend who is now working hard to reclaim her health from the cancer she just learned about in her own body.
The leaves, the trees, the earth, all the microflora and microfauna contained in the small cluster in my hands, all joined in the prayer for these two women, for their families, and the energy in the forest echoed with the strength of the prayer.
We always have the choice: heed our guidance or dismiss it.
After the prayer felt complete, I sprinkled everything back on the earth before me, and felt that I should wash my hands in the river, let the dust of the soil go into the river.
I made my way down to the water, glad to have put my suit on before going out to my sit, and left my clothes on the riverbank. Feet wet, legs wet, and down went my hands into the fresh, cool water. I swirled my hands around and the dust plumed out from them, then trailed away slowly with the current, carrying the prayers onward, down, down the river. Seeing the prayers join the river in this way, seeing the river join in the prayers, I came to know, to feel in my blood, how ancient this river is. How ancient the communities of plants, trees, animals, birds, insects are that I walk past every day.
It's so easy to let myself believe that everything on this earth is as temporary as my own life is. But there in the water, I was coaxed into facing the reality that this forest and river are eternal, and that I am only a passing moment in its existence. In only a couple of centuries, I will be gone, every creature I've ever met in this life will be gone, most of the plants and trees that shelter me, feed me, give me medicine, will have fallen onto the earth, become the earth. The insects skimming the water's surface today, the tiny fish tickling my feet, the crayfish under the rock, they will all be gone, passed into the realm of those-who-came-before.
But all the life of the forest will remain, the descendents of each kind of creature and plant will populate it, and it will, with any luck, look much like it does now. Our passing will not be noticed, no more than any of the other passings that occur in the forest every day.
As I stood in the river, soaking in the realization of my utter insignificance to this place I cherish, a dragonfly darted up to me. She was a big one, the kind I always wish would land on me but never yet has. She perched on my shoulder for an instant, then buzzed to my back, where I felt a sharp pinch. I plunged down into the water to send her off, and she darted to the shore, where she danced about from surface to surface, curling her long abdomen down to touch each thing she'd landed on. She was laying eggs.
Chills reading this. <3
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