Lingering in Happiness

I don’t know about you but when the weight of the world’s troubles gets me down, I turn to Nature, and feel better, even if it is temporary. On this day, my to-do list is long, and my heart feels heavy with the burden of speaking for the voiceless creatures, but I will surrender to my inner child who whispers longingly, “Go, and sit in the forest to do nothing but BE.”

I will close my laptop, ignore the clock, my phone, the voices in my head. I will climb the mountain now, one slow step at a time, my feet finding comfort in the thick layer of decaying leaves that hides the fireflies and the salamanders. I smile as I picture them there, sheltered out of sight, housed in a spot rich with life, new and old. I shall find an ancient oak, and after I wrap my arms around the trunk, willing her to share some of her strength and wisdom, I will rest beneath her branches, on a bed of moss. I will sit, still, and quiet, allowing myself to ponder the way the light slices through the leaves, making gossamer strands of silk dance in the sunshine. I will close my eyes and listen to the calls of the crows, of the red-shouldered hawk who hunts at the pond, of the pileated woodpecker as he flies high above me, his black wings a blur in the treetops. I will lift my face to the sunshine, feel the warmth on my skin. I will touch the white pine bough, feel the softness of the needles, marvel at the girth of the furrowed oak trunk, rough and dry, rub my fingers across the waxy leaves of the sourwood, admiring the curve it makes to follow the light. I will open myself up to the messages of this sacred place.

I will forget the world, and be joyful, If only for a little while. 

Mary Oliver’s poem,  Lingering in Happiness comes to mind:

After rain after many days without rain, 

it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,

and the dampness there, married now to gravity,

falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground

 

where it will disappear–but not, of course, vanish 

except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share,

and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss;

a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole’s tunnel; 

 

and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years, 

will feel themselves being touched. 

 

May your day be filled with light and joy, and may you remember Mother Nature is always just a short drive, or walk away, and her gifts are always present, and always free. But you must remember to look.