Fall Morning Musings

            On this cool fall morning I am part of a group attending a Nature Write class at Indian Springs MetroPark.  It is my second class.  After some discussion of the readings, our assignment is to take a half hour or so to walk out into nature, choose a path or let a path choose us, find a place that speaks to us, ask permission to be there observing, listening, watching—just being.  Be quiet in our space and let it speak to us, whatever its voice. 

            I’m feeling shy and uncertain today.  Self-consciously I turn from the group and begin to walk away.  Most often drawn to the cover of the woods, today I am drawn to a grassy hill, specifically to the lone bench sitting empty at the top.   I follow a path keeping the bench in my sight, but also scanning the grasses alongside me.  A tiny pink aster peeks around a blade of grass, seems to nod to another lone flower, this one a yellow daisy.  A gentle breeze blows and the daisy turns its back.  A fly buzzes.  Ahead of me is a stone wall—beyond the wall a garden, its summer colors fading and dry, golden brown taking over—and beyond the garden the hill.  I stop, lean on the wall and silently ask for permission to come into this space, to listen and observe—to learn with my heart.  Closing my eyes, I wait for an answer.  Opening my eyes, I’m drawn again to the lone bench sitting against the background of blue sky, waiting.  Two lone geese fly overhead, leaving some space in their togetherness.  A silver plane drones across the broad nearly cloudless sky.  I breathe the freshness of the morning air; stop to marvel at the sparkle of dewdrops on patches of grass.  A spider web glistens. 

I have my answer as I’m led on a path around the side of the hill to another wall, a circular stone wall.  Beyond the wall, a pond.  Not to the woods, not to the hill, not to the pond.  Enter the circle.  Be quiet.  Watch.  Wait.   I enter, sit on the wall, close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my face and chest.  A cool breeze caresses my back and shoulders.  I open my eyes and again notice the bench at the top of the hill, the cluster of small trees part way down the hill, and at my feet a stone circle in the center of the larger circular wall.  Wild flowers, some might call them weeds, emerge from the cracks in the stone.  How strong and courageous they are to grow in such a place, merging their green life with a life of dry fragile sticks and hard stones. 

            Again my gaze looks up at the bench at the top of the hill.  I’m tempted to climb, but there’s not enough time, I think.  The time for climbing is past.  The time for following steep, winding paths to see what’s on the other side holds less attraction for me these days.  Today my explorations take me closer to home.  I have often chosen the path less traveled.  Today I again chose a path less traveled as I move inward toward my heart