March 15th, 2005
|11:29 am - 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.
Current Mood: relaxed
Current Music: "Time to Go Home", -JB
It's basic Two Powers, but I didn't plan it that way. It just happened.
Made me feel pretty good, too.
That made me feel good, too. *closes eyes* This is why we hold as sacred the sun, the sky, and the secret rivers running dark and sweet beneath the earth. Mmm mm! That reminds me of how wonderful it is to be alive. :)
It's so much easier to meditate that way when you actually ARE out in the sun, don't you think? I don't do it very often normally, but when am outside and not romping around it sometimes seems that ALL I can do is meditate like that... especially if I have homework I am supposed to be doing. :D Just to feel, to soak up the holiness of the sun, the holiness of the slightly damp grass and the fragrance of cool earth: to imagine oneself as one of the sun-baked stones or the shivering wild-flowers... that is an incredible gift, a blessing composed of a million blessings. And then, the trees... I do not have the right words to explain the trees.
But, it feels good to be in connection with these things.
Sometimes I wonder how, if I weren't pagan, I could ever find any completion at all! This connection, this bountiless harvest of blessings and the struggle to understand them and reciprocate in turn: this our joy, regardless of whether we are Druid our Wiccan or Exploring. This is what I would like to imagine as the fundamental defition of paganism. Yes, yes, I'm sure Tom would sit on me for that or something, but if I were forced to define it, this is how it would be. Pagans know things in a different way: they read them in the patterns of a beech trunk, they hear them in the songs of the mockingbird, they feel them in the warmth of the sun and the bitter chill of winter nights. Pagans search for the meaning not just in stars, but in what lies behind, within, and between them... or at least, that is how in my naivete I would like to imagine the world works.
This ramble was brought to you by Nat Res 367, which is too boring to study.
*grins* It is the way the world works, if you choose to believe that. I, personally, do choose to.
Sometimes we try too hard to connect, when really, all it takes is a few minutes under a tree, simply being.
The most amazing experiences are the ones we least expect.
Well damnit, that's empowering. That IS the way the world is, then, because I believe it is. *crosses arms and looks badass*
Anyway, yeah... the best gifts are always the ones you didn't ask for. :)