There’s a different realm of Time that lives in the earth. When we look, when we pay attention, when we sink into the subtle cycles of root and stem and vine, we begin to unveil an entirely different world of orientation, quietly living alongside us.
“Survival is the doorway to Earth. Awareness is the doorway to Spirit.” - Conversations with Grandfather, by Tom Brown Jr.
Our first winter rains came and I trekked up to the 20 ft. tipi to roll up rugs, put away pillows and attempt to dig a trench around the edges of the poles to prevent flooding inside of it.
The rain was falling so quietly and perfectly throughout the forest. The oak leaves, brilliant orange and yellow, happily receiving the moisture, were bold and pronounced against the darkening earth and the sky was a shield of grey as far as I could see, covering and uncovering the snowy peak of Mt. Lamborn.
It was then that I looked at the clay beneath my feet, at the tiny trickling rainwater ravines, the resilient yarrow leaves, and suddenly I felt, so clearly, this different realm of Time, living right here, everywhere, alongside me.
It was as if I was being attuned to another reality completely. Almost like a welcoming home, like a come on in and check this out. This is the truth. This is where you want to live.
It was a flash, a pebble in the pond of my mind, and it’s rippling out into the way I perceive the living world around me.
We have become accustomed to the seven day work week, the twelve months, the hustle and bustle of hours, minutes, seconds, deadlines, on time, late!, overdue, underpaid, etc, etc, that, at least I have found myself completely entrained in that particular, globally enforced level of awareness, of orientation to Time.
It is easier to lose that sense out here in the wilderness with the goats and the two year old and the minimal electricity. But we still mark our calendars, check our clocks, follow the Gregorian calendar by and large as we navigate our lives into the future.
But I wonder. What would it look/feel like to really attune ourselves to each of our own unique, living, place-based “calendars”?
Time based on migrations of deer and flowering herbs. Time based on first snow and rising constellations at dawn. Time based on the movement of Sun and Moon. Time based on qualities of snow. Time based on sequence of blooms and migrations of birds. Time based on buds, smells, seasons, qualities in the wind.
Here, the hummingbird comes in the spring. The sagebrush flowers in the fall. The rosehips are ready to harvest after the first freeze.
Rosehip harvesting moon. Hummingbird moon. Sagebrush flowering moon, when the deer begin their migration up the mountain and the bear begin to disappear into their wintery hibernations.
Imagine how culture, based on earth time, could be so beautiful, holistic, connected. Celebrations of rosehip, hummingbird and the sprouting wild onion, signifying the beginning of spring. Gatherings based on the dreaming bear and migrating deer. Harvest times. Storytelling times. Community united in celebration of survival, abundance and proliferation, no different than the fox and chickadee, no less beautiful.
This is a beautiful human culture.
All it takes its attention. Keen observation of Life, of nature. Continuously looking, observing, attuning to the breathing, signifying qualities of a landscape.
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October Sentences
This is a practice I picked up from fellow Substack writer, Chris La Tray, where you write one sentence a day.
He writes: “It’s a simple practice and fulfilling … and also maybe not so simple as it may seem. Regardless, the practice is excellent training for paying attention to the small moments of my life, and I enjoy sharing those moments here.”
Oct 1. As I drag juniper branches from the forest, they leave tracks in the sand like finger paintings.
A meeting in the garden reveals the living mystery of walking a spiritual path.
Best thing I’ve done in a long time: turn my phone off and leave it at home for the day. What freedom.
If nature was a symphony, the animals would be melody and harmony.
Remembering ancient roots as we feed the Holy in nature, a lake on Grand Mesa.
The rose petals and wild plums, vibrant against the dull sand, seemed to dance as we hummed old Hebrew melodies.
Her feet were completely white after she ran through the old ash pile, across the hard packed clay into the yurt.
Giving thanks to this Chinese pheasant that found its way into my life today.
First I was visited by the praying mantis, then the gardner snake and finally a lady bug flew over and landed on my arm.
We’ve been trying to teach Amara to say, “I am the Chosen One,” but she keeps saying instead, “I am the Rosehip.”
A dear friend finds us in the parking lot an hols up the first edition of his newly published book entitled Withinity.
A man in magical flowing garb arrived at the song circle with an instrument that transported us to the middle east.
Her tiny adorable voice singing Bob Marley makes my heart utterly melt.
We laid in the green grass today, beneath the junipers, and it felt like we were ocean-side in October.
We walked the goats into a field full of fluffy seeds.
After the wind and rain, I dug up the mulberry tree and brought it home.
Ruby red apples on silvery leafed trees line the driveway to our friends’ home.
A man from Nigeria was sitting behind us on the airplane and I was amazed that the American woman asked him literally nothing about his life and culture.
My grandpa points at visible and non-visible birds from the courtyard at Butterfield as I hold his hand, wondering what to say.
We pile up leaves from the Osage Orange and jump in, as my dad, uncle and grandpa watch from the sidewalk.
His hands were so cold as I kissed him goodbye.
I realize, 10,000 ft in the air, that as children of earth, we are all as sick as she is.
I am reminded of my power to pour light/attention into whatever it is I want to flourish.
I told the former secretary treasurer that I wasn’t on anyone’s side, except the butterflies of course.
We are told of the 13 laws of the Maya, about the balance of giving and receiving, and about how to please the Goddesses.
Stoic deep dive into Mayan prophecies by the fire at night.
Two mamas and their wild daughters singing in the lavender, rosemary and sage steam.
We tore apart the tiny piano and painted it blue, gold and purple.
I put my boots on and went out into the perfect silence of autumn rain.
The complete and silent beauty of our first snow invigorates me with inspiration and awe.
A planet twinkles as Scotty brings in the hot rocks.
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Thank you for reading this edition of Wild Leaf. Thank you paid subscribers! It is a joy to offer my gleanings to each one of you. Happy November.