A quiet walk in the woods, down a fairy path, into the stark cathedral of winter cottonwoods- there I met an actual murder of crows.
They were so atmospheric- even with the blue sky. They have funerals, you know? They remember your face. I wonder if they will wait for me to return.
Walking to find stillness is like thinking or writing to find stillness. The only way to find stillness is stillness. Yet, even when the river is still, there are currents flowing underneath- the spirit body and breath body and mental body, constantly flowing under the surface of
any/stillness/ever.
There are still a few red leaves- so much gold- and all the big puffs of flowers gone to seed, ready to float down the fairy path with me- bringing new life.
New life in this season of death, of discarding away what no longer serves.
There is stillness in this season. As we let our leaves fall away, we find our trunk- still and strong- rooted into the earth and oh so much more than those leaves we released. There is stillness coming- the stillness of winter- the great quiet time.
Instead of frantic holiday trauma, I may choose more quiet delights this year.
Another walk in this woods, down these paths, when snow covers the bare branches.
When deep winter stillness reigns over the forest.
I will make sure to greet the crows- wouldn’t want them to be offended.
