Nature is most lavish in her gifts and in order to appreciate them we should listen to her voice and study well her teachings. ~J. Clark
I don't know how I happened upon that quote one day when I created this blog, but I did...happen upon it, that is. And at that moment, "Into the Woode" meant to me something mysterious and unknown, rather like walking in a darkened wood with nothing whatsoever on the agenda except to follow a rustling breeze, or the musky scent of a toadstool. To gather what you may, while you may, and even after you may (o gasp), was the impetus that drove me to write down my thoughts here.
Into the Woode was a bit nebulous and sticky, like the stringy-fingers of the cat-face spider's web. It was even a bit grabbing like a bramble at your skirts.
Through the summer, however, I found that the Woode became lighter, brighter, even diffused into tiny fairy specks suddenly gathering and just as suddenly dispersing like dust motes in shafts of light. My Woode is the sound of rain dripping from my eaves, and the snap of a juniper log on the fire. My Woode is the groan-grackle of the chickens in the purple-black of dawn. My Woode tastes like bacon pop-cracking in the cast iron skillet and the richness of the deep amber of my coffee in a rustic pottery mug on a bright, cold Sunday morning.
My Woode is a dew drop.
My Woode is one pretty fragile petal left.
My Woode is a tangled grassy path through the bottom of a lake bed.
My Woode is the Autumn sun poking at me through the leaves of my favorite little
My Woode changes as I twist and tumble through the labrynthine maze of the seasons, through the wheel of the year, as I Become in every moment, at the breaking of each day and the second my eyes are closed...
My Woode is My Becoming.