Sometimes afraid of reunion, sometimes

of separation:  You and I, so fond of the notion

of a you and an I, should live

as though we’d never heard those pronouns.

Rumi

It is late August, and open meadows and deciduous trees are turning from green to brown.  The deer have re-appeared outside our back windows after spending the summer foraging on the slopes of a local mountain.  Their hooves make a crunching sound as they wander through the dry grasses and leaves in search of ivy and other edible plants. 

As the summer gives way to fall, I admire how artfully the wind helps the tree let go of its leafy garb.   The tree seems to rejoice as the breeze arrives.  The two seemingly dance together making a rustling sound and swaying movement.  Then, when their dance is complete there is celebration.  Like confetti, a group of leaves scatter through the air and flutter onto the ground.

Almost overnight, it seems the porch and walkways are adorned with different patterns.   No longer tethered, leaves are free to ride the currents of even smallest of wind gusts, pirouetting across the surface to form little leaf mounds on the pathway.  It is then I gather my broom and begin sweeping.   

Stroke by stroke of the broom, I lose myself in the unity of the movement and sound.   Whoosh, whoosh.  Whoosh, whoosh.  Whooooosh.   As the leaves slide in front of the broom, they are like words of the saga of existence of all beings – birth, death, inhale, exhale, receive, give, whoosh, whoosh. 

Within that saga, there is the mystery of immeasurable wholeness within the ordinary occurrences and tasks of daily living.   I am grateful to the wind, trees, and turning of the season to tune me back into the gift of sweeping.  I am also grateful for my rural ancestors modeling chores and work as an expression of reverence, and being an integral part of life.   As fall moves along, I will continue to sweep.  I hope you will join me.

Practice

This practice supports your awareness of tree wisdom.  Ideally, outside.

Prepare –

  • Turn your phone and any other devices to airplane mode.
  • Sit near a tree, or in a place where you can observe a tree. 
    • If inside, ideally have a window open so that you can hear outside sounds.
    • Say “hello” to the tree.  Thank it for doing all that it and other trees share with your breath, shelter, paper, and inspirations.
    • Resist the temptation to take a photo. 

Practice –

  • Sit with the tree. 
    • Imagine you are seeing this tree for the first time. 
    • For example,
      • Notice its size, its limbs, and maybe its roots. 
      • Notice its qualities and characteristics such as it peacefulness.
  • Close your eyes, or allow them to settle into a soft gaze. 
    • Acknowledge to yourself that you are in the space of the tree’s home.
    • Imagine that you can feel the tree’s presence.   
      • Notice any natural sounds in and around the tree, yet let that awareness float by without analyzing the source of the sound.  
      • If comfortable, sit quietly without any effort to learn or observe the tree.  Allow any awareness or insight about the tree to arise and fade.
    • Rise.  Touch the tree and say “thank you.” 
      • If inside, imagine you are touching the tree.

Transition back into your day –

  • Hold your arms around the tree, or imagine that.  Make a commitment to visit it again soon.
  • When you are ready, return to your day.

This poem is translated by Coleman Barks and appears in Mala of the Heart: 108 Sacred Poems, page 40, edited by Ravi Nathwani and Kate Vogt and published by New World Library.   HEARTH is posted each new and full moon.  KateVogt©2019.

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