Cadence of Silence

It’s odd we don’t think it’s odd that we regard silence as deficient and not as full. 

We fill the air with talk, music, sports, news and weather updates until we fall exhausted into bed, the sounds of the day still ringing in our heads. Yet we feel unsatisfied because we’ve heard little that we want to remember. We feel empty. In the manner of the Quakers, we should remain silent until we have something important to say.

Old Trees and Landscapes

There’s a street near my house that had a small woods of majestic, large trees hanging over the road. It provided cool shade even on the hottest summer day. Some trees were perhaps one hundred years old. For one block it felt like walking through Sherwood Forest with its thick trunks and dense canopy.

It used to be a space that made me linger and encouraged me to breathe deeply and get my bearings as I headed off to begin my day. That small woods made me happy.

Being Spiritual Outdoors

When people talk about spirituality, a number of standard terms are used that have different meanings for different people. We have our own preferences, of course. Some terms we bristle at, because of bad experiences in the past, while others we cozy up to like old friends. Each term covers a huge amount of territory with many nuances.

In regards to what we actually mean, we also use many of the terms interchangeably. So don’t get hung up on a term. What we are seeking is connection to the deeper reality, a numinous experience. Substitute the term that has meaning for you.

Sequoias

(from a visit a few years ago)

Leaving my car at the entrance of the Mariposa Grove of giant sequoias, I walk slowly through the deep snow and let the silence of the grove wrap around me, moving from one giant tree to the next. I place my hand on the thick red bark of one and feel its endurance.

Beneath my feet, its roots connect to the roots of the other trees in the grove, and I feel the strength of community. Leaning back, I marvel at the dimensions of a giant sequoia. In its canopy, an ecosystem of life exists, far above the visible life I see from the forest floor.

I feel insignificant here, and imagine how dwarfed I’d look in a photograph. These 3000-year-old elders of the mountains hold centuries of memories in their branches. In the quietness of the afternoon, I feel the presence of shared wisdom.

Nature As Revelation

John Burroughs wanted people to go outside and enjoy the nature that existed around them wherever they lived, whether this was farmland, forest, ocean, desert, or a city park. He was concerned that people were staying indoors too much.

He wrote this in the late 1800s.

I think he’d be more concerned today, because we drive, rather than walk, to the local grocery, if we still have a local grocery. New housing developments often don’t have sidewalks. Most of our houses don’t have porches for sitting and chatting with neighbors walking by. We don’t linger after dinner to watch the sun set over the trees, or see the moon rise. Our children don’t go outside to play, and many are afraid of being alone in the woods.

Shoveling Snow

The world is quiet this morning after the snowstorm. The city feels cloaked and protected by snow.

Sounds outside are muffled.

Furnaces come on, and curls of steam and smoke rise from every snow-clad roof in the neighborhood. It looks like we’re living in a small village and everyone is cooking breakfast on wood stoves.

River Teeth - Beautiful Things essay

"Waiting for Owls." micro nonfiction. Read it in 2 sips of coffee.

http://www.riverteethjournal.com/blog/2016/02/08/waiting-for-owls-

Doing Nothing, Just Sitting In the Woods

Some days, when’s a lull between the usual rush of activities, I don’t know what to do. I’m restless and look around for something productive to work on. Then I see the woods.

In midwinter, the woods in central Illinois are bare and brown. The sky is generally gray, and on most days there isn’t enough sun to satisfy my cat. Without leaves in the way, I can see a mile over to the next hill where there are more brown trees. Brown doesn’t interest me much. I prefer green.

Yosemite in Winter

from Mountains of Light

Rising from my sleeping bag, I crawl out of the tent to take a dawn hike around the frosted meadows for an hour or so. The sun peeks over Glacier Point and lights up the bare granite rock of North Dome and the meadow below with a warm yellow glow.

In Cook’s Meadow, acorn woodpeckers hop up the trunks of dead trees, picking out acorns they stored there in the fall. By Sentinel Bridge, three young bucks are hanging out looking for trouble; their snorts come out in white puffs. 

Invocation of Trees

The trees, now naked of leaves, stand proud in the woods behind my house. They hold their strong bodies against the cold and rise up to the sky, rise up with their arms open in thankfulness to Creation for the year that has been, rise up in reflection and praise.

The birch trees twirl in the breeze with open hands like whirling Sufis, reuniting heaven and earth. The pine and fir trees, heavy with snow, bow their heads and scatter their resinous incense on the air. The oak trees feed acorns to the squirrels who have slept in, and protect nuthatches and wrens with their stout branches.