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I see a first snow covering peaks and colors in the leaves, I feel a chill in the morning air, inside me I feel a thrill, it’s early October, and I’ve come to sit and walk in an aspen grove, it’s like a Fall garden of colors, gold and yellow, red and pink and peach, white and still some green, purple and blue, clouds subdue the sun, sets a mild mood, the only sound is the quiet of nature, I sit in the quiet for a time and feel the silence, then I rise and walk around for a bit, I see a moose’s track in the mud by a nearby stream, and I think, though the sun may come out, the moose will not.

Bear cubs quietly sit in the stream, water tumbles out of the mountains, scattering sunlight as it goes, coyotes howl behind the trees on the ridge, bull snake moves soundlessly into the brush, owl stares down silently from overhead, then the air resounds with thunder claps, and the sun shining from the mountaintop becomes obscured by a veil of rain moving up the valley, I’m in the cottonwoods, I’m in a wild, walking a wild path, observing, listening, watching the sky, it’s where I want to be, where I want to stay, I feel the life here, I feel the life in me, it’s where I don’t feel afraid, here, where every year, new leaves grow green and every year, leaves turn color and fall, a cycle that continues, no matter who or what moves beneath, long before I was and long after I’m not, the cycle has been, will continue on, and the thought of that leaves me feeling I don’t need to be afraid

Chokecherries ripen after rain, feel like they’ve been crying, like me, crying for all the suffering in the world. And with the return of the sun, I walk to an off-trail Aspen grove, a favorite wild where I go to be among wilderness friends. I find them and lots…wild geranium, blazing star, golden aster, bee balm, blanket flower, mariposa lily, wild daisy, black-eyed susan, harebells and of course butterflies and bumblebees.  As I take a seat in the grove, I feel what feels like a sensation of healing from my head, which feels tight and a bit dizzy, to my stomach which feels sick, to my hip which I’m told needs replacing, and all the way to my big toe which has an ingrown nail. This little aspen grove is a good place to be and just be. It’s the kind of place where I feel so in touch with being alive that it almost makes me cry, but a cry of joy. That feeling in this wilderness wonder reminds me to remind my brain that I’m okay, that I’m safe. The medicine here is in the silence and solitude and that nothing here is human made, but me. Yet, I feel the health in thinking of myself too, as a wonder. I see and absorb the deep beauty of this place. I turn inward and see the deep beauty in me. It’s self-awareness not about feeling better than anyone else or anything. It’s a healthiness I need to be a helper in a suffering world, when I return. For now, I continue sitting in the wild.

The sun rolls to me on the wind from a distant hill across a grassy valley, the summer is in tune, flowers are in bloom, mariposa lily, showy primrose, prairie coneflower, goldenaster and sundrops, blackbirds and meadowlarks sing, I sit, I pause, to be with the land, to breathe, to be alive, away.

Among columbines, petals lavender, purple and white, I am sitting, on the soft earth, below tall lodge pole pines, near cold crystal clear water, flowing frothy and white, in a trout stream, it’s not a dream, I see insects, some are crawling, some are flying,  and almost without knowing, I feel at peace, without trying, it’s like I am in a book and on the next page, I see pink wild rose and geranium petals and refreshing sage, I see arnica with yellow blooms and leaves shaped like a heart, now I feel like I am in a work of art, except this is alive, all of us, flowers, birds, bugs and fish, the trees,  swaying in the breeze, all of us breathing together in summer’s gentle weather, I feel the life in the light of the sun, on green leaves it shines, it all combines, among  columbines.

Alone. Sitting where the trail bends. Sounds of water dripping after a light rain and the bubbling of a hidden small stream. Lots of purple larkspurs and yellow arnicas.  Like the trail bending it feels like my life is bending too. It’s my 70th Spring. As I always have, I’m still looking for the good.  Along life’s trail, I have found a lot. I remind myself, to remember that. The pain in my hip reminds me to take a deep breath and know I am safe. I keep on sitting. I keep on listening. Tall trees standing firm before me, speak of calm. The quiet and beauty of this place and the sound of water drops dripping touches me with softness. 

In a field of blooms and grass, that I was about to pass, I stopped, to be alone in nature’s powers, I found myself walking in wildflowers, the silence there slowed me down. I took time to look at the show of colors all around until I decided to lie on the ground. Lying there I thought of my days when I was young, running in the sun, and how now, in my older age, it sometimes feels like I’m in the shade of dark clouds. But this morning as I looked at the abundant petals so bright in the glow of early light and saw how the wildflowers thrive, I was grateful to be able to join with them in being alive. 

I find some shade, in a pine glade, with hardy and wild flowers all around, I take a seat on the ground, I feel the coolness of the breeze shaking off the heat of the sun,  I’ve just begun to breathe it all in, where does nature begin and end, I don’t know,  I miss the winter snow, but the flowers’ glow and the meadowlark’s song brings me a feeling that even in the Spring I can find delight and belong.

The delight of morning light, in a ponderosa forest glade, feeling connected to my earthen base , from which I am made, yet, visioning myself moving through space, while sitting alone, among April pasqueflower blooms, in the foothills, below rocky ridges jutting up into blue sky like bare bone, I am observing and listening, seeing the light reflecting and glistening, hearing the caw of a crow crowing, aware of the joy in my heart growing, knowing I am part of one biota

Walking a forest ridge in an April snow, flakes falling  powdery and fine, the only tracks on the ground are mine, I lean against a tree and the feeling is free, I feel  the solitude, I breathe the silence, I hear the patter of flakes on my shoulders, out here time seems suspended, the only measure being day and night and the seasons, my human limits are upended, out here it’s not about will, it’s about being still, it’s about not being needed, it’s about …being