Somewhere along the way we easily lose contact with the mystery and wonder of a life we're thrown into, a life that comes to us infused with presence and possibility. Perhaps because there are no directions, and perhaps because we're thrown into life without our say-so, and perhaps because there are always pressing practical issues of survival and care to attend to, it's easy for us to find ourselves far from contact with the simple mystery that is around us and between us. So how might we hold both wonder and practicality together with one another? And what inner freedoms might we draw upon to support us in this?
This week's Turning Towards Life is hosted as always by Lizzie Winn and Justin Wise of Thirdspace.
Turning Towards Life,
a week-by-week conversation inviting us deeply into our lives, is a live 30 minute conversation hosted by Justin Wise and Lizzie Winn of
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Here's our source for this week:
Her sturdy branches
were the towering mountains
to dance on.
Her deep roots,
the rolling rivers to frolic in.
Every inch of her was infused with the wonder of the world.
Ten years later,
I am ten years older.
I walk past the ordinary tree on an ordinary day.
Her trunk was a place of comfort,
just the place to eat my
oatcakes.
In autumn her fallen leaves were
warm blankets
for the fairies.
In spring her golden buds
were the perfect shape
of a fish for my fire.
Ten years later,
I am ten years older.
I walk past the ordinary tree on an ordinary day.
I would look up through
her web of leaves
at the cold sky.
I would sit resting against her trunk,
feeling her rootedness
Into the underground world.
Ten years later,
I am ten years older.
I walk past the ordinary tree on an ordinary day.
On one of my last afternoons with her,
she slipped something into my pocket.
When I asked what it was
she answered
“You will know one day, when
you are aware and awake”
I didn't understand
those words so
I sat,
I forgot.
I trusted.
Ten years later,
I am ten years older.
I walk past the ordinary tree on an ordinary day.
As I grew older
And started to wake,
I forgot what it felt like to feel so content
alone with her.
I forgot what it felt like to dance on her mountains,
or frolic in her rivers.
My focus started to shift,
my life felt
full and heavy,
my mind was only ever thinking
ahead of what was.
My body felt full of weighted dread.
Ten years later,
I am ten years older.
I walk past the ordinary tree on an ordinary day.
One day, long after I had stopped
my visits to the tree,
I reached into my pocket
to find what she had given me
all that time ago.
Now some may only have seen an
oatcake,
but I saw so much more,
I saw the dreams I use to have,
I saw the blissful joy.
Ten years later,
I am ten years older.
I walk past the ordinary tree on an ordinary day.
I saw her mountains,
smelt the rivers,
I saw the fairies passing by.
An explosion of life filled my heart
as tears filled my eyes.
As I looked at the oatcake
resting softly in my hand,
I wondered to myself
how I ever lost this joy.
Ten years later,
I am ten years older.
I walk past the ordinary tree on an ordinary day.
I wanted to keep it forever and ever
and never let it go,
maybe if I gripped it tight enough,
it would surrender and stay with me.
In that moment I heard her voice,
faint,
Carrying the warmth
of a soft summer breeze,
“it is always in your reach,
my love,
it will always be there waiting,
but letting go is part of life,
let this be your
awakening”
Ten years later,
I am ten years older.
I walk past the ordinary tree on an ordinary day.
October 2022
Photo by
on
