Forest Faith: a meditation poem

Forest Faith

When the edges of my mind fray,

and the golden sacred thread 

seems pulled, gathered, caught 

upon the briar of my broken being,

and my hearthome holds too much

behind its ancient doors,

so there is no breathing space at all,

I take myself to the woods.

For there I become not young,

but small again and feel the rising 

ocean tides of sap lull me at last

into the deep greening rest of soul 

only the old tall ones know;

the sky touchers, earth drinkers 

we call in our dull infant speech, simply, Trees.

So I place my foot upon the winding path

and dew the way with tears and sometimes even blood,

until their windleaf song sounds soul deep, 

and slows and halts me long enough 

to feel their verdant canopy of calm,

and I greet them then,

as the keepers of the way they are;

the blessed Beech and noble Holly,

the Oak and Ash and Thorn, 

grey brown brothers and sisters 

of the branching dance of being. 

Their familiar oldness a reminder 

of my passing place 

in all this; they leaflean down 

to teach me once again the way of prayer

as being and being as prayer,

allowing the holy breath to play along my spine 

as within their trunked tallness

while standing through the shifting seasons

they grow slowly, imperceptibly, always,

until flower and fruiting follow in their turn,

then the seeming fall, asleep asunder for awhile,

as my life now flutters, cast upon the winds

lost in wildness, a wintered leaf, dry and brittle, 

but here in their stately shadows

daring to read the scripture of their state, 

and hear their prophecy proclaimed in stillness; 

that old roots dig deep and deeper still, 

that branches bend so not to break and 

that there is a joy in storms when yielded to.

So for a while I breathe the sylvan air 

and greet the great and green,

these guardians of natural grace,

and then when I have walked long enough 

to become reminded, rewilded 

and rehomed in heart, 

I bow in thanks 

and leave the woods 

to plant their sainted seeds 

throughout my world and life;

to feel a forest grow within

and make the faith feathered one

a home.

Wood Walking

 Feeling the call of the Woods today... 

Wood Walking

When you walk

the woods,

do so at their pace.

Not yours.

Pause before

you enter

their embrace,

and breathe deep.

Slow down to their

ancient pace

of root,

and

branch,

and

story.

Then,

with a bow,

enter;

and allow their

cathedral coolness

to enfold you,

and their greened light

to anoint you

with

sylvan sacrament

of stained glass

dappling;

and

your healing

will begin.

As over the craggy

bare nerves

of

your busyness,

and

sharp

exhaustion,

and

the rough edges

of your

broken heart,

a gentling of moss

will begin to

grow

as slowly as

blessing.

Feel their tallness

stretch you.

Their deep dark

womb you.

Their leaf,

and flower,

and nut,

circle you,

with knowing,

of a kind unknown to

fleeting minds and

restless hearted

humanity;

greening you to

wholeness again.

Passing into

their sanctuary,

stop;

and become

one

with them.

Let them teach you their

communion mystery;

their secret

homing of

rustling life that

feathered sings

and

furred shelters,

both

beneath,

and,

above.

Listen long

enough

and they will

teach you

their tongue:

words of wood,

and weather,

and water,

united in one

song of praise

that began

with the first

Divinely led

step

into

the dance of

inter-breathing

that you have

forgotten

how to sing

until now.

Sit your

tiredness

down

in the crook

of their

rooted gathering,

with your

back

trunked;

and let them be

your

spine,

just

for a while.

Your sap will

rise

with theirs

in the four-fold

benediction

of the

treed seasons

which

foreshadowed

their

glorious gifting

of their own element

to be

the rood throne

of

the Word

by whom

all is spoken.

Touching

their great slowness,

be reborn

of their wisdom

that promises,

for every Winter

a Spring,

and roots

deep enough

to outlast any

Summer drought

until Autumn’s coolness

comes.

When eventually

you rise from

their embrace,

stretch to the heavens

and breathe deep

of

their largesse,

while ground gripping

with toe tap-root.

Their knowing,

now with you

once again,

dusts you golden

like pollen falling

in the breeze.

Then bow deeply

to your elders

and fellow servants

and walk back

to your life

now luminous once again.

When you walk

the woods,

do so at their pace.

Not yours.