It was a morning where nature seemed to be speaking to me. Giving me signs in its subtle and beautiful way to read life through the eyes of the natural world around me.
Even though I awoke kind of down, I saw things to lift my spirit –telling me to always look up and try to keep my soul flying despite those that may try to pull it to the ground.
It said never stop believing in myself or my song. And to sing it loudly, with my own voice and wherever I land.
To climb to the highest places I can imagine and not let barriers stop me no matter how daunting they may appear.
And that sometimes beauty is in the same place you walk by every day. Suddenly it appears bursting forth after being hidden. You may have to kneel down and look hard for it –but we can usually find it if we are determined it’s there.
That it’s OK to sing many songs and make them one. To incorporate the melodies of others to weave my own hymn to be sung proudly from the highest branch.
There can be light through the heavy limbs of darkness if only we look. Use the darkness to help the light illuminate more fully.
If you’re facing a storm at least keep your back to the sun.
When walking on that high wire, never go it alone. Try to bring a friend along with you to help you balance and keep steady.
And remember to slow down. Stop and see the world around us, hear its music and revel in its magnificence. For all earth’s creatures and plants have much to say, we just need to listen.
This perfect poem was in my email today. He said it way better than I ever could dream of doing it.
And I behold once more
My old familiar haunts; here the blue river,
The same blue wonder that my infant eye
Admired, sage doubting whence the traveller came,–
Whence brought his sunny bubbles ere he washed
The fragrant flag-roots in my father’s fields,
And where thereafter in the world he went.
Look, here he is, unaltered, save that now
He hath broke his banks and flooded all the vales
With his redundant waves.
Here is the rock where, yet a simple child,
I caught with bended pin my earliest fish,
Much triumphing,–and these the fields
Over whose flowers I chased the butterfly,
A blooming hunter of a fairy fine.
And hark! where overhead the ancient crows
Hold their sour conversation in the sky:–
These are the same, but I am not the same,
But wiser than I was, and wise enough
Not to regret the changes, tho’ they cost
Me many a sigh. Oh, call not Nature dumb;
These trees and stones are audible to me,
These idle flowers, that tremble in the wind,
I understand their faery syllables,
And all their sad significance. The wind,
That rustles down the well-known forest road–
It hath a sound more eloquent than speech.
The stream, the trees, the grass, the sighing wind,
All of them utter sounds of ‘monishment
And grave parental love.
They are not of our race, they seem to say,
And yet have knowledge of our moral race,
And somewhat of majestic sympathy,
Something of pity for the puny clay,
That holds and boasts the immeasurable mind.
I feel as I were welcome to these trees
After long months of weary wandering,
Acknowledged by their hospitable boughs;
They know me as their son, for side by side,
They were coeval with my ancestors,
Adorned with them my country’s primitive times,
And soon may give my dust their funeral shade.