09 November 2011


I went down the ravine back yard way, down off the property line and into some of that very rare space in ... well, anywhere in the world, really; that rare space of unspoiled wood, of dead trees left standing where they stand and alone to return the borrowed energy and physiology to the elements. I went down past the Bent Tree, remnant of a by-gone era where travelers based routes on accessibility to water; Bent Trunk pointed the way.

It was down by the water I was headed, drum in one hand, to Sit. There's a small rock shelf-cum-waterfall provides a great meditative Flow.

I sat for a second. Or hour. You know; time as a clock concept mattered that much.

I sat. Leaves fell. Peripheral vision as well as focus points were alive with Seeing-The-Wind-- leaf-snow. All these little Leaf-souls, drifting, this time of year, back to play blanket for the roots of their bearer-tree.

I caught the rhythm of the Fall, and the Falls and falling, and the drum began to beat. One small leaf, some minutes later, demanded my attention, and I watched her drift from near the canopy-top down, down, downey-down, to rest, stand-outish, on a mossy rock. Outside of their life or consciousness, I sit like a god who sees their cycle for the beautiful symphony life and death must certainly be.

They MUST, else we would not have chosen incarnation.

They simply MUST, I say...

Slainte folks.