creation

After a long, hard sleep last night,

I woke up this morning to the gentle plink plonk of rain on the bedroom windows,

the sound of a plum tree scraping twig tips against the living room window

and that sense

that everything that has breath was praising the Lord.

Really, summer in the West is

hymn after hymn of praise for the Creator

and the genius of nature:

the whip of willows in the wind,

the fall of water over smooth stones,

the methodical washing of the rains,

the dry heat that grows the grasses tall,

the slow and lonely beat of my heart

(for I am nature too and when I was made, the Creator proclaimed me good).

Summer in the West is so stuffed and exploding with surprises,

the sort of surprises that can only make a soul gladder by all passing moments,

the sort of surprises that rip at the blinders we place over our hearts and minds.

My gaze is renewed.

I see the summer coming.

The summer arrives.

I take off my shoes.

I cry out:

Here I am, show me!

All my whispers turn to prayers

and these mountains I tread upon rise up as temples,

as the holiest of holies.

Out in the gardens,

the things I always trust to fail,

prove once again that my shallows are shallow.

There’s a rhythm here that is stronger than the muddling tempos of

human invention. I cannot trust in everything, but I can trust that the raspberries will always turn plump and red in the sun, my favorite rose will always smell as sweet, this unfolding space, in seventh dimension (in honest four part harmony) will always sing me back again…and again, I will return.

The promises of the seasons

(the steady and clean unfolding of nature)

reflect the greatest promises of all:

healing, redemption, growth, death, renewal,

love…

What is summer like, where you are?

Are you turning gold like the wheat in the fields?

Are you pressed, over and over, by the textures of the wildflowers (the indian paintbrush sweeping coral onto the canvas of your soul)?

I can feel my pace has slowed.

I’m under restoration.

In a space this quiet, this calm,

I’m allowing myself to be nurtured.

That said, I’m a tad stir crazy here.

I’m desperate to be up the mountain running like a tawny flanked quadruped.

Last week, I jumped in a river and bruised my heel, quite terribly, on a river stone. I’ve barely been able to walk, let alone gallop. My injury is breaking my heart. These summer days in the West are tidily numbered and dwindling fast so I’m taking to the gardens, most vigorously, building arbors with flexible portions of willow I’ve been gathering from the river, guiding vines up and over them so that there seems to be a constant, green banner of love drifting in every direction.

Summer in the West:

These high and dry times.

These burning and bright shining times.

These dust dampening morning raining times.

It’s all so good.

:::EDIT:::
THANK YOU
so much for the comments you left on this post as well as the emails and Etsy convos you’ve been sending me regarding this life snippet.
You’re the stars and the moon.
x

My sleep was thick with dreams last night.

I woke up this morning with a thousand insights to share with you on the topics of love, beauty and truth.

I spent the day up the mountain from here, thigh deep in snow and aspen groves. By the time I saw the ice and heard the mountain water, nothing really mattered anymore…