Wild Winds

O, blessed somber day of
ferocious winds and coming cold.
Color remnants hurled against the overcast sky
tug at my my unsettled soul.

Wistful day of
wild gales that strip away what was, 
time slipping through my fingers
as I grieve what is passing, 
not yet ready to embrace what will be...
as if I knew.

Rooted companions, the trees 
twist and writhe in the tumult,
trunks and branches whipped by forces 
beyond themselves. 
Responsively, they bow.
Their survival depends upon surrender.
And what of mine?

On this turbulent late-autumn day 
latent fears rise to the surface,
fears in the pit of my stomach,
fears of my own rigidity and
desire to cling.

And yet, where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your Presence?
It is enough.

Finding God

The light is slowly fading and dusk is soon is at hand as I sit on my front porch, listening to the end-of-day chorus of Carolina chickadees, titmice, cardinals, a Carolina wren, and a few remaining white throats. Perched in the tall trees surrounding the house, the Cope's grey tree frogs are noisily tuning up and soon I'll hear the bullfrogs in the nearby wetland, as well. The temperatures are cooling and it is time to sit and rest from the hot and sweaty, but immensely satisfying, earlier labor of planting tiny trees in the back section of the yard. All of them, flowering dogwood, red maple, black gum, red oak, and persimmon, began as seeds I collected and sowed in a propagation bed a couple of years ago, though I wasn't exactly sure what I would do with them once they germinated. 

As I sit in gratitude for the fragrances and songs of evening, I am pondering my work in the world, and in the local landscape in which I live...my life's work, really. Though, for these last few years, we have been so fortunate to live in a large swath of woodland, protected by federal scenic easements, I cannot help but embrace a sense of responsibility to this land and to the creatures who live here. Planting for insects, for pollinators of all kinds, for caterpillars who become the foundation of resident and migrant bird populations has become second nature. Planting native fruit and nut bearing tree and shrub species, though I may not live here long enough to see them bear, provides me the deep joy of knowing that the day will come when the local wildlife will benefit from my seeding experiment.

Recently, I was talking with my spiritual director (which is a topic for another day) and she asked me what I most want to do in life. And, without thinking, I blurted out, "I want to walk in the woods and plant things." And so, without really meaning to, I have come to live out my life's work one day at a time. And in living out that work, I have come to know God in the way that is most natural to me.  The ancient Celts believed that God did not create the world out of nothing, but that creation flowed out of Himself, thereby imparting a bit of God in all that is. I find a deep peace in recognizing not just His work, but that bit of Himself, in the woodlands around me, in the soil into which I put my hands, in the whispers of the wind and the frogs who will sing me to sleep tonight. 

May you, as you pay attention to what is around you, find Him too. 

February's Invitation

Stillness at sunrise, winter's quiet breath,
rosy horizon and blanketing snow.
Winterberry brightening the season's grayness as

quince and magnolia buds burgeon bravely in the cold

Silence interrupted by the day's beginning...
conversational crows straggling in from their across-the-river roost.
Titmice' single note calls and a red-shouldered's cry,
woodpeckers drilling in the distance and goldfinch's

soft squeak on sycamore balls.

The world roils.
But here, sweet gums against the sky.
Peace...
Shall I not take it?

In the Company of Beeches

Beneath the canopy of giants, young and older beeches fill the understory along the trail that runs to the river.
Everywhere, warm tans soften the gray of this raw and rainy winter day, persistent dry leaves whispering in the wind, 

fallen ones cushioning the raindrops that patter against the forest floor.

Great craggy white oaks soar skyward, golden-crowned kinglets and nuthatches searching the loose bark for hidden grubs and overwintering insects.

Mosses skirt the yellow poplars' flanged bases, creeping like fuzzy green stockings along the massive trees' long and winding toes.

Above, red-headed woodpeckers work the dead trees and yellow-bellied sapsuckers the live ones.

Food for all, near at hand, free for the finding.

Below, throngs of white-throats forage in the duff layer beneath the shrubs, disguised in the dry leaves, darting to and fro, like so many winged mice, too intent on their quest to notice me.

Oh, to be a member of this quiet, enfolding community, surrounded by unpretentious beauty in all seasons...roots entwined, branches interlaced, mysterious communication beneath the earth-one species to another, no awareness of the human folly beyond its borders.

Like the imaginary dwellings of my childhood, secret spaces beneath sweeping branches, hidden from the rest of the world, the sanctuary to which I turn when in turmoil...

Peace in the company of beeches.

November Woods

Every November, beginning in 1979, this poem floats back into my mind, bringing with it a brief but poignant sharpness of long past grief and regret.  My husband and I were in Botswana for a three year term with Mennonite Central Committee, and my mother was newly widowed a few months before we left, back in Virginia. I left for Botswana confused and steeped in guilt, caught between a husband who wanted to go and a mother, alone, who desperately wished we would stay.

From a world away, I put together a scrapbook, of sorts, filled with poems and pictures I cut from South African magazines and mailed it to her in time for the first anniversary of my father's death. Even to me at the time, it seemed a pitiful offering, but it was the best I could do, so far removed from her day to day struggles.  This poem isn't a great one, not of literary excellence or note, but it does convey the essence of November and the memories I carried of the season, in a land where there was no time of year that remotely resembled autumn in the east.

November Woods

Lovely are the silent woods, on grey November days.

When the leaves fall red and gold, upon the quiet ways.

From massive beech, majestic oak and birches white and slim,

Like the pillared aisles of a cathedral, vast and dim.

Drifting mist, like smoking incense, hangs upon the air.

Along the paths where birds once sang, the trees stand stripped and bare.

Making Gothic arches with their branches interlaced,

And window-framing vistas, richly wrought and finely traced.

It is good to be in such a place, on such a day.

Problems vanish from the mind and sorrow steals away.

In the woods of grey November, silent and austere, 

Nature gives her benediction to the passing year.

                                                      Patience Strong