I stare up at the veiny roof spread high above between these two guardians, a canopy of cracks and peepholes to heaven, light raining down glory.
I cannot decide where to place my hands - by my side? Beneath my head? - and settle them finally across my diaphragm, where I feel each breath as prayer and meditation. The struggle all week to breathe deep culminates here in intentional practice of surrender. My body fills, expands, loosens.
And I listen to the wind, untangling leaves as it combs through the branches.
I become small once more, spread open, sandwiched between earth and sky. This tree, whose roots now support me, its bark is lined with ruts, wooden wrinkles set so deep it emanates holy mystery. I could wrap three times the span of my arms around its trunk, I think. I reach out and place a hand gently on its skin and wonder if I might, here, feel God's
I flip over on my belly, my cheek against the blanket against the earth, my nose tucked in close to my arm. The scent of my human musk, of miles walked and biked in the sun today and soaked into my pores, rises like burning incense. I am reminded from where I come and where, one day, I will return.
On the edge of the blanket, a speck of moth rests. I am grateful for this fellowship. We are not moth and human in this moment, but God's creation under care, called to rest and enjoy.
We breathe in, and God sings through the wind in the trees, and I don't know what is being sung, but it is more than enough.
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I'm linking my words today with Unforced Rhythms. To tell you the truth, I wasn't planning to today or anytime soon. I planned to take a break from posting on my blog, for a number of reasons, but when this happened Saturday evening, I came back and the writing flowed so, well, unforced. This post came as a refreshing follow-up to my last post, which you can find here. I hope, in some way, if you have been struggling to find rest as I have, this might speak to your weary heart.