Within each of us is the acorn, the soul seed, the germ of our unique genius and destiny. Our goal here is to uncover the acorn to reconnect with the inner angel.
.. Don’t go looking for what’s wrong with us, rather, … go in search of our genius
Elizabeth Lesser
Our soul – with its insistence on finding the still point from which it keeps rising – carries us through the seasons of our lives. This still point under all that keeps moving waits under every season we can imagine. It is the silent center that keeps us sane. We all have different names for this immovable ground, but I call it spirit.
Each passing year, we are asked to return to the ground of our spirit in order to go on. Each passing year, we are asked to listen like the seed for our crack of light in spring, to listen like the brook for our soft gurgle in summer, to listen like the leaf for our orange face in fall, to listen like the snow for a quiet place where we can powder down and rest
Mark Nepo
Was walking in the woods over the long weekend with an awareness of the Japanese term komorebi – the flickering of sunlight filtering through the leaves, ever changing. We can learn life lessons here:
When I am among the trees….
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
Mary Oliver, When I am Among the Trees
There is a hard truth to be told:
before Spring becomes beautiful
it is plug ugly, nothing but mud and muck…
But in that muddy mess,
the conditions for rebirth are being created
Parker Palmer
I don’t know who God is exactly. But I’ll tell you this. I was sitting in the river named Clarion, on a water splashed stone and all afternoon I listened to the voices of the river talking.
Whenever the water struck a stone it had something to say, and the water itself, and even the mosses trailing under the water. And slowly, very slowly, it became clear to me what they were saying. Said the river I am part of holiness. And I too, said the stone. And I too, whispered the moss beneath the water.
Mary Oliver
Feastday of Saint Francis of Assisi
The tree which moves some to tears of joy, is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way.
Some see nature all ridicule and deformity … and some scarce see nature at all.
But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself.
William Blake
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