Tree Huggers

This post is dedicated to my nephew, Brandon. Brandon, I wrote this little poem several years ago when I was at a Women Who Run With the Wolves retreat at the Cenacle in Houston. Hope you enjoy! :)

Have You Hugged A Tree Today
Dedicated to Laura Lerod, a "real tree hugger"
part of my "pack", May 21, 2006
The face of Mother True in my dream
Thank you for your part in my evolving.

Have you hugged a tree today?
I have.

Walking the perimeter of the Cenacle,
I chose a path not made of asphalt or cement.
Instead I chose a path into the woods--
albeit a path well marked.
Still, it had the feeling of adventure and journey.

I took the spot of the farthest chair as my place of solitude
to listen and learn from She who was around me,
then I sat with Mother Earth and heard,
"Hug a tree."

How foolish and tiny it seemed--
yet I have done foolish and tiny before
and received great joy--so
I hugged a tree.

Mother Pine stood straight and tall,
firmly rooted, yet stretching into the sky
so high I could not see her top.
Timidly I touched her, then put my arms half-way 'round.

Foolishly, feeling silly, timidly--
then with sublime audacity,
I embraced her fully.

She did not hug me back,
but instead received all I had given her with a grateful heart.
She received me and let me practice hugging her--
And somehow I felt restored.

I stood there,
at the Cenacle,
in the woods,
at the farthest chair,
hugging Mother Pine,
my skin touching hers...
I smelled her fragrance
as she sniffed mine.

We became acquainted, she and I,
standing there in the woods that day--
me foolishly hugging her,
she lavishly receiving me.

I too know what it is to hug a tree--
and why.

Ripple...

My middle son and I were discussing my newest painting, and he gave me these words to the Grateful Dead's Ripple:

There is a road, no simple highway,
Between the dawn and the dark of night,
And if you go no one may follow,
That path is for your steps alone.

Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.

I can only use my key to get into the Garden, and I can only walk the road laid out before me. Someone else's key won't work, and someone else's road won't lead me to the Center. Thanks Barton. I love the words to the song.

A New Start

I've been thinking about the feminine face of God, and how she seems to haunt me, no matter how I try to "avoid" her. She appears everywhere in my home--on my mantle and especially in my paintings. My mandalas are her gifts to me--it's as if I paint them from her womb. And my other paintings hold her face for me as well.

This is my newest painting--yet unfinished. It's called, She Holds the Key. I have a skeleton key that I'm going to place in the palm of her hand. The idea was sparked by a dream I had many years ago. I dreamed of a garden--lush and beautiful--hidden behind a wrought iron gate. A friend of mine was inside the garden, and I could tell she was contented and happy to be there, but I couldn't find my way in. I was talking to her through the fence. She told me that I had to find my own way into the garden--that there was a gate just for me, and I had to find the key that opened my gate.

Recently, I've been reminded through some of my reading that She may hold the key for me.

It seems strange for me to say that--I've run hard after God, and loved Jesus exceedingly. So this turn in my journey feels "unsafe" in so many ways--yet it has drawn me for nearly five years.

I remember many years ago walking into the chapel at Dickinson Retreat Center and sitting in the back to pray--and looking up to find that I was sitting at the feet of Mary. I felt so safe--that was long before my journey to the Catholic Church.

Even before that, my love was the Bride and the Bridegroom and the partnership with God that spiritual marriage meant.

And I remember the day that Jesus invited Her into my "home" (my heart). I was praying, saying to Jesus, "You are welcome to move into this 'house', rearrange the furniture, make it your place to just 'be'." And I "saw" in my mind's eye Jesus grin and put at picture of Mary the Mother on my mantle.

And it seems She's been there every since--as maiden, mother and crone.

I've found her face in Scripture: the maiden in the face of Solomon's maiden and the face of Mary of Bethany; the mother in the face of Mary, Jesus' mother; and the crone in the face of Mary Magdalene, as she buried the only Jesus she knew, waiting for "something new" to come.

In my forties, I found Jesus' face. In my fifties, I found my own. And now as I enter my sixties, it seems I have an invitation to more fully explore hers.

Blessed be.