Chronarchy (chronarchy) wrote,
Chronarchy
chronarchy

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The morning's meditation

Quietly, I sit beneath an old oak tree.

The leaves rustle in the breeze.

The ground is wet but warm.

The sun is shining overhead.

The sky is a deep blue, bright and beautiful on this crisp March morning. I gaze at the world around me. Up before the people who often move through here, the quiet is more like silence. Everything is alive. Everything is real.

Everything is as it should be.

I sink back into the tree, feeling its bark, rough against my back; smelling the scent of long-fallen leaves; hearing the wind that races playfully through the branches above.

Deeply breathing, I sigh. I let the world fill my senses, drawing me quickly and strongly into a whole other world.

And that otherworld draws me back, back into the tree.

My spine merges with the oak, leaving behind the discomfort and roughness of the bark. The sense of silence is replaced with strange new feelings, feelings of quickening and excitement, fullness of life and expectation, creativity and song.

And I find myself as the tree.

My spine is straight, unbending except to sway gracefully in the breeze. There is no effort, no façade or mask to be put on. As the tree, I simply am who I am.

I can feel my arms stretched out above me, reaching out with thick branches toward the sun, reaching up with all my might to bring the buds, my smallest and most delicate, up to the sky for nourishment.

The dew of the morning is infused with the bright light of the sun. A warmth spreads from the tips of my longest branches down to my central trunk.

And I am filled with wonder.

Spreading out below me, directly beneath my spine, I feel the deep roots, tendrils and toes all at once. These have dug deeply into the earth, fighting their way from mere inches to feet to yards to fathoms. They stretch and strain still, seeking, finding, drawing up the nutrients and nourishment I need.

Deep in the dark, behind rocks and under the caverns of small animals, a cool stream flows. It is but a trickle, fed from some far-off source that I cannot know, but it feeds me.

The waters and the nutrients it brings are drawn up these roots, up my spine, up my branches. These waters infuse me with a deep, throbbing connection to everything before me.

And so I am filled again with wonder.

I am alone, but not, for though there are no other people around, I now feel the trees to my right and left, those older and those younger. We look different, feel different, and sing different when the wind passes over our branches, but we are all trees, and we are all one grove.

And so I am filled a third time with wonder.

This is my own Druidry.
Tags: clergy, dedicant path, meditation, piety, reflections, writings
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