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lykomancerI am constantly amazed by the shifting weather and the power of nature in northern Wisconsin. It's so simple to walk outside and within fifteen minutes, find redemption, peace, grace, forgiveness, and mindfulness.
Where is God? IT is in the Chequamegon National Forest, pumping through the gills of a sturgeon, in the greenery and concrete beneath your feet, in the depths of Lake Superior. "The Father's Kingdom is within you and outside of you... Split a piece of wood and you will find me; lift a stone, and I am there."
How does one begin to worship? By running one's hands through the thick, wet spring grass, by attending to the change in scent that heralds a new season, by licking the rainwater from your lips, by listening to birdsong and the rush of a swollen stream, by watching the Northern Lights burn the night sky. Raise thy voice in wolf-song, and listen for IT's reply in dark, wind-swept forests! "Live each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each."
"Read Marcus Aurelius of each thing..."
I went outside for about an hour, and walked bareheaded and barefoot in the rain. "Walked" is actually a bit of an exaggeration; for about ten minutes I simply stood in the grass... a sort of silent meditation.
It felt good, calming, centering. The moment of rebalancing, washing away previous sin.
I feel like writing on "Phoenix" again, or drawing, or maybe beginning to pack. Wash more laundry. Straighten up and organize. Write poetry about Northland. Jam out to Stuart Davis.
I've seen the future of mankind / Which is not Hell / Which is not bliss / But all I can say is it looks like this / Mmmm...
Where is God? IT is in the Chequamegon National Forest, pumping through the gills of a sturgeon, in the greenery and concrete beneath your feet, in the depths of Lake Superior. "The Father's Kingdom is within you and outside of you... Split a piece of wood and you will find me; lift a stone, and I am there."
How does one begin to worship? By running one's hands through the thick, wet spring grass, by attending to the change in scent that heralds a new season, by licking the rainwater from your lips, by listening to birdsong and the rush of a swollen stream, by watching the Northern Lights burn the night sky. Raise thy voice in wolf-song, and listen for IT's reply in dark, wind-swept forests! "Live each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each."
"Read Marcus Aurelius of each thing..."
I went outside for about an hour, and walked bareheaded and barefoot in the rain. "Walked" is actually a bit of an exaggeration; for about ten minutes I simply stood in the grass... a sort of silent meditation.
It felt good, calming, centering. The moment of rebalancing, washing away previous sin.
I feel like writing on "Phoenix" again, or drawing, or maybe beginning to pack. Wash more laundry. Straighten up and organize. Write poetry about Northland. Jam out to Stuart Davis.
I've seen the future of mankind / Which is not Hell / Which is not bliss / But all I can say is it looks like this / Mmmm...
