Wild places

The hazel and hawthorn trees dapple the foxglove and campion.  The bracken breaks through like a bishop’s crook, the brambles arch and the nettles gather.  They hold silence like a living quality of air, broken by birdsong and bees' hum, and the river stroking stones in the hollow.  There is a magic quality to wild places that restores the soul.

So what of ourselves?  Do we allow wild places to grow in rampant chaos, or do we cut and control our inner being?  Is there room for birdsong in our plans and processes, do bees visit our memories?  Do we allow nettles and spiders as part of our harmony, or do we prefer manicured thoughts and concrete paths?  Can I breathe in an inner silence, can I trust the pillars of trees that border my feelings?  Are there rivers I listen to although I can’t see their source or destination?  Am I green, can I make my own oxygen?

And when error or disaster have bulldozed pain through my orchards, can I give it time to heal, can I let new growth cover the scars and enjoy the wild flowers that thrive in new-made clearings?  Can I trust that the chaos of wild places is as important to my creativity and sanity as my carefully constructed buildings?