forest

December Moon

~ Extravagant Hope ~ Leave a comment

The December night is dark and deep, stillness and chill seeping into bones despite a layering of coat, scarf, hat, gloves, and thick-soled boots.

Footfall is muffled and shushed along the pine-strewn path, boots stirring up the ancient scent of the woods and winter-shrouded earth.

The hush of the forest has a particular sound—not truly silent to the careful observer but full of the rustle, scurry, and purpose of those living in the night. Frigid air gives their purpose a new vigor with warm dens and beds of fern, pine needles, and forest detritus waiting to give shelter.

Deep, full inhalations fill lungs to the brim with invigorating, life-giving air. Oddly, the heavy chill, though it burns and startles, offers peace and affirmation of knowing one is alive and well. Sometimes it takes the cloak of a dark, wintry, forest-y night to bring clarity to the chaos and exposure of living in the light.

Rounding the curve in the path, the stillness of the pond with the shimmery moon-glow trail on the dark water is breathtaking. A path of light and love painted on the water by the brush strokes of One who loves to bring awe, redemption, and delight. Loved. Seen. Safe.

The sound of stealthy prowling comes from the edge of the pond as a night hunter shifts and waits for dinner. Circle of life.

Moving along as the chill ever deepens, the hooting of an owl adds to the frosty night noises—haunting and lovely, it is primitive and wild.

The path around the pond circles back on itself, and my boots head back to the cabin. Thoughts of the cheerful fire in the firepit on the deck and the warm sherpa blanket urge me onward at a brisker pace.

Wrapped in the cozy blanket, Irish coffee in the large Christmas mug warms my cold hands, steam rising merrily as the fire mesmerizes me.

A scrabbling, crunchy noise interrupts my reveries as a creature moves about to the left of the deck, digging through pine needles and foliage for a midnight snack. Curious glowing eyes spy on me. The shadowy outline of a fat raccoon in the faint reach of the firelight watches me until her curiosity wanes, and she moves along.

Leaning back in the deck chair, the stars appear strewn about like so much glitter landing at random points. But nothing is truly random. The night sky is beautifully planned and decorated with patterns and puzzles of light created to lead the ancient traveler.

Frosty breath wafts up as if making its way to the austere moon that guides, watches, and travels the night sky. Fascinating to imagine all the eyes that have looked up in the night for navigation and a sense of constancy in a world that doesn’t always seem that way. A balm to lonely souls, the shining beacon of light makes things feel safer and less chaotic.

The shepherds on that holy and silent night looked up into the same chilled, star-filled sky that I see on my deck as the fire glows and snickers to itself. The same moon watched on as the Holy One became man, as angelic hosts filled the still and starry night with the most awe-inspiring, stunning display of power and love that humankind has ever known.

It is not by happenstance that eyes are drawn upward—seeking wisdom, direction, meaning, safety, love, and blessed peace.

From a cold and silent winter night, filled with moonlight and stars, came the Light of the world. A Divine exchange between Creator and creation. Ultimate gift. Unconditional love. Emmanuel.

Warm bed beckons, and I head inside, mind full of awe as I struggle to comprehend the enormity of the gift humanity was given on that night so long ago.

The old wood stove burns quiet, drowsy warmth. I curl up under quilts and comforters as the light of the moon gently glows through the snug window. Thoughts of angels, joy, and eternity soothe and calm into a restful sleep—a silent and holy night where all is calm and bright under a December moon.

From Divine Appointments…

Photo credit: Martin Mariani

Light

~ Extravagant Hope ~ Leave a comment

The first gentle rays of sunrise bathe the cluster of Redwoods in a pale, quiet glow. The forest air is crisp and clean as it sheds the last vestiges of night.

Nature’s early risers watch and wait. They are eager to greet the new day with gossip and chatter. The early light calls them to bring their songs and joy to the new morning. The undergrowth is full of rustles and kicked about leaves as the hunt for seeds and insects begins.

Shadows and light play off of each other illuminating swaths of the leafy forest floor as the sun makes its ascent. Sunbeams filtering through the branches catch and backlight tiny dust motes trapped in the air. It feels supernatural how the rays of light are so concentrated, yet gentle, like a divine spotlight that pierces and penetrates, exposing everything to the pure, beautiful light. Each beam highlights and dances over the branches, trunks and leafy bushes, casting an ethereal and other worldly glow to the waking forest. One might expect angels to move in this mysterious light. Whispers of the divine abound.

The crooked curve of a branch, sharp, rough edges of tree bark, mossy growth and choking poison ivy that entwines as it creeps up the tree trunks are laid bare in the light. Everything stands out in stark relief. Even dead, cracked branches that are brittle, hard and dull are bathed in light and a kind of loveliness is restored. Beauty found in unexpected places…

There are no secrets here. Nothing is hidden. The rough, sharp scars, the dead, ugly pieces, the mossy growths and random vines threatening to suffocate the beauty of the trees, are naked and exposed in the lovely, glowing light. Holy.

Transformation happens in the Light. All is revealed and can be made whole again. We can find beauty in the dead, scarred places when the One who pierces the darkness with His breath, His gaze, and His thoughts turns His eyes to those unlovely parts that we so desperately want to hide. Shame is exposed and covered with grace. Wounds are bound and healed as life and prophesy are breathed over them. He makes beautiful things out of the dark, hidden places. Scars show perseverance and victory, dead places are pruned and healed, curves and bumps become testimony and entangling vines are exposed and burned away in the Light.

His Light can feel harsh, painful and exposing. It takes courage to stand in it and let the Light do its healing work. But the end result will reap untold, eternal benefits. Joy will come in the morning, when the Morning Star covers and bathes our exposed and vulnerable parts with soft, healing, lovely Light.

The Singing Heart

~ Extravagant Hope ~ Leave a comment

Open space and room to breathe – some isolation really.

It’s calling out and my heart hears it – craving, simmering, and stirring.

A quiet place that will nurture, cradle, and hum the songs of nature, the songs of peace.

A lovely, forest-y, meadow path. Peace.

It takes a moment to shed the world as my feet take those first steps.

Social media vies for my attention hovering in the background. Did that recent post get likes or shares? A snarky comment or minimizing remarks? A book sale?

“Breathe,” whispers the spritely breeze.

“Look,” sing the serene trees.

“Just let it go,” shout the bright meadow flowers.

Squirrels and fussing birds dart and flit about their business. Purpose.

The pine-scent that soothes and calms permeates the slightly chilled air – breathe in and out deeply, and fully. Remember.

The silence of the forest and busyness of the meadow are a beautiful chaotic contrast – thrilling, healing and peaceful all at once. Lovely chaos that is joyful, primal, and ancient. Soothing and safe.

Senses are awakened from the hidden place where society often relegates them down to a murmur, a fleeting glimpse, perhaps a burden.

I belong to the elements where senses are welcomed and sights, sounds, scents, and textures are pure. I could be part meadow fairy or tree sprite…

This coming home lifts my spirits, as the tight-fisted clenching of muscles, mind and identity loosen and fall away.

The healing power of nature, the elements and life in the quiet places is spiritual, miraculous, and mysterious. 

Divine whispers surround, swirl and permeate the soul, spirit, and heart bringing pure delight, unfettered joy, and such hope.

As I drink it in, scraping off the expectations, demands and “shoulds” that cling to my heart, I feel a melody pumping through my veins.

A release and crescendo beating in time to the songs of nature and the quiet places lovingly woven by the Creator.

Healing, belonging and peace flood in to fuel the song, seal in my mind’s eye and heart memory the wonder and serenity of this less traveled road to peace.

My heart singing to the rhythms of Creation.

Hope Grove

~ Extravagant Hope ~ Leave a comment

Hope Grove

He is up before the sun rises. His camo-colored backpack lies on the backseat of the old, dark blue Jeep. It’s full of water bottles, snacks, a sketch pad, and sunscreen. A few haphazard beach towels and a trusty old blanket are tossed on the floor, below the backpack. The smell of his hastily grabbed cappuccino wafts and swirls around him; it’s a comforting scent and tastes like liquid gold.

He enjoys road trips, especially heading to the forested mountains of the Sierras. He gets an early start to avoid traffic and people. The many laned freeways of suburbia will inch down into 2 lane, curvy mountain roads. The gentle hills give way to the foothills dotted with trees and brush.  Soon he will be in the mountains and the anticipation in his bones is invigorating!

As the Jeep climbs up and up and twists and turns on the winding road, he feels some of the tension leave him. His shoulders drop a little and the tightness around his ears and neck loosen up. He really has been full of knots and worry and vague feelings of frustration.

It won’t be long now. His turnoff is coming soon. He can feel the pull and tug on his heart and body that this mountain trail always conjures up in his soul.

Turn signal on, he eases into the small, wooded, empty parking lot. Yes! He doesn’t want distractions today. He deeply needs to be alone to refresh and get some perspective. Such unsettled emotions plague him lately. They bubble up and at times consume him. Life is difficult right now. How does he get out of this slump? Nothing is going as planned. His big interview was a disaster. He was completely unprepared and the failure of it still reddens his face with embarrassment. High expectations and dashed dreams camp out in his mind. Others in his sphere are successful and fast moving. They are further along than he is, and it rubs, scrapes, and gnaws at his thoughts.

Yet…another feeling has been hanging out in his mind, as well – a rushing sensation that pulses along in his very blood. It’s not unpleasant but unusual. He can’t quite put his finger on it. Deep down he knows whatever it is, it’s calling and beckoning to him; an insistent feeling telling him it is time to get to the mountains.

Well, here he is in the mountains…

He takes in the stillness punctuated by calling birds, rustling trees and the beautiful, blessed silence that is the forest. He belongs here. This is his place. He feels known and accepted by the mountain, the trees, the very scent of warming pine that he loves so much. He takes deep, deep breaths to capture the scent in his lungs and hold on to the scent memory.

Hefting his backpack from the Jeep, he grabs a beach towel. He plans to find a lovely place to sit and become one with the earth and forest for a bit. Maybe he will break out the sketch pad. Downing the remaining cappuccino, he is off to the trail and whatever adventure awaits him.

He chooses a brisk but easy pace for his hike. He likes to feel his blood pumping but doesn’t want to miss a single thing the forest has to show him this morning. It has been a while since he’s hiked here. He wonders if it’s changed; in his heart he hopes not.  He soaks up all the mountain offers him; sounds that only the forest makes – creatures scurrying and fussing in the undergrowth vying for bugs and seeds; loud jays that scold and screech at each other shouting the forest gossip; louder, more defined thumps and rustles that come from a bigger animal making its way over and around whatever is in the way.

All these are music to his ears and a feast for his eyes! Moving gingerly along the path, he notices some random bursts of white hidden among the detritus on the forest floor and snagged along the bark of some trees and bushes. Hmm. Odd. In all his years of hiking forest paths he doesn’t remember seeing this strange white stuff. He stops and waits a moment along a curved spot in the trail.  He looks back and sees that the placement of the white doesn’t seem quite as random as he thought. Was it placed here purposely? That urgent feeling of beckoning and calling is coursing through his blood again. Interesting. “What is this?”, he wonders aloud.

He heads off again, alert this time for more white. He spies it snared on a fallen old pine tree and heads over for a closer look. Oh, it appears to be feathery and light, a bit silky, airy, and so soft.  As he runs this white, airy softness between his fingers, a peaceful feeling of safety and rest settles over him. He senses that he is going to be ok; somehow all is well and will be well.

Not knowing what to make of this, he searches the path in front of him and spies more white as the trail twists and turns out of sight. Senses piqued, curiosity and bravery filling his soul, he travels along this mysterious path that enchants him.

Rounding a bend, he spots a small, weather-beaten sign. It sits on a dilapidated post covered with moss and lichen. Tiny yellow flowers surround the crooked base. The sign says Hope Grove and there is a faded red arrow pointing off to the right. The white, airy material is profuse here at the right-hand fork. He doesn’t remember any of this; is he lost? He does not have that frightened, adrenaline rush feeling of being lost. Oddly, he feels found.

He doesn’t hesitate as he follows the fork to the right toward Hope Grove. He feels anticipation and wait, is that joy? It might be…

There is a small tunnel-like area up ahead where smaller trees and creeping vines, snagged with the white feathery material, make a covered spot over the trail. He moves through and emerges into a lovely little grove of pines. There is a small area of meadow grasses and some wildflowers dipping in the breeze. Fascinating! He moves about this little grove stopping to look closely at the flowers, sturdy grasses, and the light; the lovely, beautiful, soft light. Excited, he finds the perfect spot to toss down the beach towel and sit a spell. His mind is clear and uncluttered. He enjoys the sounds, scents, and beauty. It refreshes him. It is actively restoring him. He feels it, he knows it. His soul and spirit unclench, and he decides to let it all go. Peace. Safety. Rest.

After sitting for a bit, allowing his tired body and battered spirit to breathe again, he opens his backpack, grabs snacks and water, and looks at the sketch pad lying there. It wills him to open it, to capture and fill the pages with what his senses show him, and the grove speaks to him.

Taking in the entirety of the small meadow and grove, he sees a well-worn sign to his left. Hope Grove. The words are written in blue faded letters. Floating off one corner of this aged sign, he sees the white again. The way the light hits it, the way it flutters and moves with the gauzy breeze looks like feathers – white, airy, wispy feathers. Happy and joyful, they beckon and call to him. He is not alone here in Hope Grove. The presence is not sinister; it is a Spirit of joy, belonging, peace and love which permeates this sacred place. It is sacred and intimate. Here he is wanted. There is no expectation put on him because he knows that he is enough. The fear that sticks to him of late falls away. In its place is confidence. Confidence that he’s got this and is right where he needs to be in his life journey. Opening the sketch book, he surprises himself at how deftly, yet simply he captures the light of this place. The way it falls between the pine trees, in stark but gentle beams. The sign is dappled by the rays that penetrate its corner of the grove, illuminating the white feathers in a mysterious, forest-y, and peaceful way.

In between his drawing and snacking, he allows the peace and silence of this grove to seep deep into his spirit, soul, and bones. He will not forget.

As the light and sounds of the forest shift to early evening, it is time to go. He feels wistful as he packs up his things, careful to leave this magical place undisturbed. What he will leave behind him is fear, defeat, expectations, and comparison. What he will take from the grove is joyful determination, confidence, peace, and the ability to rest and enjoy his life journey. He is enough!

Making his way back along the trail he sees that his feathery white guides are gone. He smiles to himself. He knows the way back but needed their help to discover restoration and hope for his tired and restless soul.

Meadow

~ Extravagant Hope ~ Leave a comment

Standing at the edge of the alpine meadow my coffee mug is warm in my hands. A beautiful balance to the chill air. Ahhh…

Under the towering Sugar Pines, I take a few moments to soak in the first glimpse. My senses are awake and receptive drinking it in. There is a physical sensation of being pulled and beckoned, compelling me to go out in the meadow. This is my place. Belonging.

Leisurely walking the boardwalk, I notice the sights, sounds, and smells that make up this lovely place. Earthy, elemental, fresh yet ancient is what comes to mind. I pause to deeply breathe in the air, cleansed by so many Sugar Pines, Giant Sequoias and Cedars.

The meadow is already alive with creatures going about their business. The shiny black birds and bright, bold Tanagers call, dive, and swoop as they greet each other and share the meadow gossip. Flitting insects and seeds make up their breakfast. They light on the tip top of the purple-blue lupine, singing and swaying with the breeze that ruffles the meadow flowers and leafy plants. Joyful!

There is a greyed and hollowed out fallen tree with gnarled branches and bits of decayed roots lying across part of the meadow. A small tree is growing up from the edge of one of the dead branches. I wonder what creatures call the nooks and crannies home? Grass in varying shades of green, and bright yellow Sneezeweed, tiny white flowers and deep purple lupines have grown up around the old tree like an embrace. These colorful flowers create a gorgeous living carpet. Breathtaking.

Walking further in, I find the perfect spot to sit. Settling in, I am at peace. A feeling of being welcomed, rooted, and folded in, as if I belong here, in sync with the mystery and rhythm of the meadow. Connected.

I hear a rustling scurry in the clump of meadow flowers just below and to the left of my spot. A small grey-brown head peeks up and watches me, judging and spying. Deemed safe, the chipmunk darts across the boardwalk continuing his morning journey. I’m curious what the day holds for him/her. Purpose.

Trickling and whispering, the little meadow stream bubbles and flows out into the meadow. Tiny insects dip and float on the clear water. Other creatures scratch and rustle in the crowded marshy earth, searching for an appetizing addition to their breakfast.  I don’t know its source, but as the season pushes on the stream will slow and the water will pool, creating a new habitat that sustains those late summer and early fall plants, flowers, and creatures. Seasons.

The morning light filtered through the tree branches at the edge of the meadow casts a mysterious, divine glow, as the summer sun rises. The rays force their way between pinecone laden branches burnishing the meadow with a lemony, pure, white light. Each light ray is distinct and discernable, stretching out beyond the trees to touch a specific spot.  These bold rays are in sharp contrast to the meadow area still in shadows. The lighting produces an ethereal, other worldly feeling where one might fancy seeing a forest sprite or fairy, dancing and flitting through old growth and flowers. A supernatural spotlight.

The Divine is palpable and alive in this place. The Creator is here in this beautiful meadow. It is ancient ways, knowledge and mystery, the connection between living things and continuous rebirth.

The cool morning air is becoming warmer as the sun continues its climb. I have been out here for a while, feeling as one with nature and this meadow. The early morning creature energy is slowing to a lazier, relaxed pace, slipping into the routine and warmth of late morning and early afternoon.

It is time to get on with the day. I feel melancholy and wistful as my time in the meadow comes to an end for this trip. Life will go on uninterrupted after I head down the mountain. It is as if I’m leaving part of myself here with the meadow to be picked up at my next visit; to recharge and restore what life has depleted. Is it strange to feel so connected to a place?  

Divine connections and encounters are a blessing. It feels like hope.  I will treasure these sights, scents, and sounds until next time, when I sense the meadow’s welcoming arms and soothing call to come and sit a spell.

The Lake

~ Extravagant Hope ~ Leave a comment

The path around the lake is a bit overgrown, but navigable. I wonder whose feet last hiked this trail. What were they hoping to find here at the lake, nestled in the mountain meadows? This path is not new; scuff marks from countless boots have worn a soft pathway in the alpine meadow, gently leading around the deep blue-green water of the lake. I am alone here with the only sounds being my feet, as they lead me along to my favorite spot and nature, doing its thing. Birds call and snicker to each other as I pass by, dipping and darting over the water as they snip up the buzzing, whirring insects that make the lake and tall grasses their home. Parts of the path are cool and shady, winding along under the forest canopy; then sneaking out into the open meadow with wildflowers nodding and swaying, as the breeze passes through, sighing through the canopy, and stirring my hair.

The banks of the lake are home to such diverse life, with the nooks and hollows filled with myriad water skippers, boatmen, pollywogs and tiny fish, darting and spying, as I lean down to get a closer look. How can one lake hold the life of so many creatures and plants in its watery, silty hands? Carefully kneeling, I notice the lake rushes rustle and shiver, as a creature makes its way though the slippery murk at the edge of the lake. It is totally immersed in the tall, wet grasses; hunting, watching, doing what it was meant to do. Is it a muskrat? I become as still as I can and quietly watch and wait…then yes, I see its long brown body gracefully dip under water. Bubbles breaking on the lake’s surface give away how swift he can swim, as he heads to his den in the lake bank. I have a feeling I will be carefully watched.

Moving again along the path, I pass by a cold and deep looking spot, right along the edge of the lake. There is an old, long since fallen pine tree along the banks and I wonder what fish may live in that deeper, dark part. Has a fellow hiker ever cast her fishing line in, hoping to hook a big trout? Looking carefully around the fallen pine, I notice a shallower area with sunlight filtering through the trees and spot a large crawdad, his orangey-red pincher motionless. Has it spotted me? Finding a long, slim stick, I gently submerge the tip and try to touch that claw. It is too fast for me and darts under part of the fallen pine. I smile and tell it I am sorry for disturbing its rest and get up to move along the path.

My destination on the lake is coming up soon. Just a couple more twisty turns under a low hanging branch and up and over some high raised roots and I am there. My spot is at the edge of the meadow that curves and moves along the edges of the lake. There is a sweet little mountain stream that winds its way down the slopes and forest floor, and feeds into this lake. I love this place the most. Swinging off my light backpack, I bring out what I need to get comfy here. A thick blanket, water, some vittles and my book, that probably will not be cracked open. The blanket is large enough to accommodate the various positions I may choose, as I sit, lie, stretch out and soak up my spot. The babbling, chatter of the stream as it flows, dips and rushes past forest debris, rocks and flowering plants makes me happy. It is cheerful, chatty and constant, yet completely soothes and refreshes my tired soul, as it chips away the debris of life. It leaves a tender, slightly raw place inside that revels in the solitude of nature, babbling streams, throaty frogs and cricket symphonies; gossipy, scolding birds, slithery, earthy sounds and the busy, buzzing insects. And the smells, oh the smells! Earthy, fresh and that distinctive lake smell – part mud, part plant, part fishy, part flowers and pine. It smells new, yet ancient, all at once and it is lovely.

I got an early start this morning, so have most of the afternoon ahead of me to be still, listen, daydream and let some of the heaviness go. I have needed this for a while. I am ready to soak in whatever the Creator has for me here by the lake. My mind wanders to Psalm 23, “…He lets me rest in green meadows; He leads me beside peaceful streams. He renews my strength.” Renewal. Yes.

The wind has begun to sigh and whisper through the trees, as it will in the late afternoons. My signal that the sun is starting its trek to the west and sunset will soon be here. Packing up, I take another long look at the stream and the lake, drinking in my afternoon of peace and restoration. Heading back along the trail, I smile and speak aloud, ”It is well, it is well, with my soul!”