One of the many little streams that meander down from Cradle Mountain
Looking into the pebble-bottomed shallows of this coppery mountain lake, I see my green glass hope lying there among the reds and greens and creams of the local rock.
It invites me to leave it here.
There is a time for picking up hope and a time for laying it down, letting it rest back into the ever-inventive landscape from which it came, perhaps to be polished and shaped into something else.
Through the ripples of the lake’s surface, the fracture lines in the glass are not so visible now, and even the rough edges are already beginning to smooth.
Waiting now for the bus that will take me down Cradle Mountain, I ask myself: what would I like to carry forward from here?
The knowing that home is not a place or even a group of people, but a state of being and remembering. Be-membering the living weave through which we emerge, weave and are woven.
The courage to share more of my writing, no matter the results… small pebbles on the path that Life is shaping for me and around me.
The intention to take care of this living temple—my body—that is my precious sanctuary for as long as I draw breath, with deepest gratitude for the gift of being an embodied child of the Earth.
***
I am nature,
rockfall from a mountain,
cloaked and beckoning.
Alpine blossom after the snow.
Mossy, cushioned slopes
where anything might grow.
Many little streams
making their way down.
I am the lake
you can walk around and around
and never truly know.
I am wind,
whispering, singing,
screaming,
winding between all things.
No photo
can gather and hold
such beauty.
I am a poem
that will never be finished.
