Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Just a Simple Blade of Grass

Full Moon, Monday February 9, 2009:

A delicate latticework of leaves, like a green-toned intricately carved screen separates me from a wide green sward. I prize the tendrils apart and squeeze through, careful not to damage their fragile silky coolness.

I stand in a wide velvet green circle of grass, edged by darker trees. The promise of spring newly come, hopeful and young is evidenced by the trees, the grass, the clear sky and the fragrant air. Every colour of green is here, from the dark shiny holly, to the vibrant new green of the beech.

On the other side of the circle I see a great old gnarled oak, magnificent yet twisted, its writhing branches stag like against the soft blue sky. I tread carefully across the grass, soft and cushioned under my bare feet. I kneel down before the tree, my quest in my heart.

I gaze at the tree, trace its patterns and shapes. The complexity of its growing is strong, sturdy and purposeful.

I focus on a single blade of grass springing from beside a gnarled root. How graceful it is, I marvel. How delicate its tapered leaf, perfectly bisected by the finest of stems. It offers itself to the world in its uncompromisingly simple purposefulness. The blade trembles frailly in the imperceptible breeze, and I sigh softly, reach out and tenderly touch it.

Here is a single blade; I examine it intimately it till I know it absolutely.

“I would know myself in all of my parts,” I find myself repeating again and again beneath my breath. In knowing, I accept myself. Acceptance is simple, that’s all.

I bow to the ancient tree. Between my finger and thumb, the blade of grass slips smoothly from base to tip. “Simple, oh so simple,” I sing softly to myself as I turn and walk back across the sward, duck and carefully edge my way through the latticework of leaves.

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