Weed it out
cast it off
let it go.
Let it sink
into the body of the Earth
where it will be recycled
renewed
refreshed
reborn.
Let the seeds drift where they may
let your fear drift where it may.
Roll your shoulders
Tip back your head
Open your hands
Let it all fall away
unclench your life.*
Open your heart
be vulnerable
say, oh well
keep going.
It is time to sit on the rock
watch the leaves change colors
feel the winds shift into winter
It is time to let go
to recognize what has dried up
what is falling down
what can be chopped into firewood
and burned.
The spiral twists of the wheel
the turn of the stone
the rhythm of the seasons
which care not a thing
about your to-do list.
It just happens.
It unfolds.
It blooms and withers
takes root again
grows something new, but familiar
and surprises us
with the consistent,
wildly mysterious
Return.
I have been traveling this month and very busy. I am 35 weeks pregnant and I feel overbooked, overwhelmed, tense and taut more than like to feel at this moment. This morning, I woke up before the rest of my family and headed for the solace of the woods, this place that never fails to soothe me and bring clarity. I found myself pulling up a bunch of fuzzy-headed weeds, clearing them away where they had grown up between the rocks. Yes, I tried to weed the forest, even though my list for the day was very long. As I did so though, I realized I felt good. Calm. Mind stilled. The ache I'd been feeling in my sacrum disappeared and the tears that I keep feeling stinging behind my eyes did too. I remembered that this is a common feeling in the fall for me--the sensation of needing to "stop the world," the sensation that I'm spinning too fast and trying to do too much. I have documented these feelings for at least the last five years. It felt comforting to recognize the turn of the wheel of the year right there in my own life and to know that the woods simply don't care whether I cross items off my list or not. The leaves keep falling, the squirrels keep running up the trees, and the sun rises and sets every day.
*from a poem by Andrea Potos.
Crossposted at Woodspriestess.