Square painting on the wall
black gilded frame stands out on the pine-planked walls
this cabin is called “A Little Patch of Heaven.”
and I can see why.
Tucked up into the cradling arms of firs and scrub oak
I perch in the branches of a tree
overlooking a lake pond
kind of like the one in the painting
where the couple–
dressed from days gone by
is nestled in a rowboat
the arms of brilliant pink sunset
wrapping around to hold them close.
We walked along sandy roads,
made a mandala of acorns, oak leaves, sticks, and stones
climbed over a waterfall
and rested in an enchanted grove
–at least, it was to me.
Forest bathing is a new term to me
but the practice I’ve been doing all my life
Just sitting in nature, surrounded by trees
and taking it all in
every sense fine-tuned to the melody of the Maker.
And I sit at the feet of this symphony orchestra
with nothing to do but soak in the wisdom
and beauty that bark and breeze
are trying to teach me.
Opening the gold-gilded pages of my journal
I scrawl out all the answers I’ve been seeking
or maybe just the most important ones
And we dream
Patrick and I
about how we’ll make our dreams come true
at least a retreat once a year
but we’d both like more.
I vow in my heart to make nature
a concert that I frequent more often.
But how?
First of all, there’s winter
and second of all, I don’t live in a forest
though I wish I did with all my heart.
–so I could sit in the empty fullness–
the emptiness that sings with silence,
and bird calls,
and rustling leaves tossed around their tethers.
It’s an emptiness so full
it needs no filling.
This is part of the dream–
to live someday in the heartbeat of nature
growing young even as I grow old.
Surely there must be a way to find my way
to nature’s embrace in the midst of the waiting
Why?
So I can write
so my poet’s heart can unfurl like peach blossoms in May
so I can live the life I’ve been waiting all my life to live.
And then it dawns.
the realization that what my heart craves even more than nature
is poetry…
the chance to be a poet.
Silly girl,
my lip curls up into a half-grin.
Don’t you know that you can be a poet
anywhere?
It’s now our last night
sitting in silence around a diamond-shaped metal firepit
Its flames reaching skyward
Little sparks shooting like stars
to wish upon.
The charred logs give their heated glow
and crumple into ash
ready to be reborn.
Maybe they will be scattered on garden beds
becoming a new beginning
like crocus blooms on the cusp of spring
And like a phoenix rising from the ashes
I bid farewell to heaven’s oasis
Until next time, dear nature
But for once this ending is not a death
The embers fade into ash
that feeds my calling
For I am the phoenix
and out of the ashes of dreams on hold
A poet’s heart is born.
