The Trees in the Woods Are Speaking to Me

The trees in the woods are speaking to me
One whispers look this way, its branches    
pointing to the still waters below

Ayr Gorge - Peden's Cove

another’s branches growing out at
an awkward right angle offer the image
of gentle embrace and comfort merely by presence

yet another shouts
behold all things are made new
with its uplifted branches

Grounds of Culzean Castle
at sunset

at the margins, a stand with branches all
turned leeward from the constant and
never-changing winds
remind me to notice, to read,
the signs of the times with humility
while deep in the woods
one lone tree fallen at the waters’ edge
arms outstretched towards the source
of all life would have me see anew
The Sacrifice . . . and its cost –

Ayr Gorge

whether the tree that falls alone
in the forest is heard by human ears
does not matter so much
for I am given to know
that the Divine Ears hear
every tree . . .
every branch . . .
every twig that falls . . .
hear and weep . . .
hear and rejoice . . .
for the life that was
the life that could have been
and, as solid wood melts into
the loam of the forest floor
food for the sapling
to rise yet again,
every life that will be
from every life that was

The trees in the woods
are speaking to me and
it is well with my soul

Scotland -- Day Three

Failford Inn for soup (cumin & parsnip - tasty) and crusty bread and warming up after a good hike (what my friends would call a walk – I’m left wondering what the difference is and am thinking that hike, suggestive of the more strenuous, is for old chubby out-of-shape gals like me to describe the amiable stroll my younger and more fit companions and I were enjoying) . . .

We walked to Peden’s Cove, the site of Alexander Peden’s preaching from one of the Covenanters’ pulpits – apparently there are at least three locations referred to as Peden’s Pulpit – places from which Prophet Peden illegally preached, which raises an interesting question – how can preaching the gospel, especially in a land claiming to follow that self same gospel, be illegal?  Who ‘owns’ the rights to The Word?  Who gets to mediate what can be said and by whom it can be said?

With all these high and lofty religious thoughts swimming around about my head, I am minded of more pressing things, like the love of a mother for her children – as I watched Liz walking arm-in-arm with daughter Zara and then side-by-side with son Ruaridh . . . I watch and listen and smile . . . and ponder . . .

How do you explain to the golden child stretching his wings and preparing to leave the nest how she hungers for him . . . for time spent with . . . for words of sharing from . . . how do we explain to these creatures we spawned in a way they can understand that their absence from our lives is a physical loss and that the hunger their absence creates is one filled only by their presence?

It was a good day today – children present, safe, and hungers held at bay – for a time.