I've been rereading SkyEarth Letters from years past...while getting ready for bed, an essay at a time. The other night I read "Filling the Center of Being" which I wrote after a staff retreat at a cabin in the mountains. It was the magical retreat where I put readings from favorite nature writers along the trail with poems to point the way. There was a beautiful ice fall over a ledge beside the brook.
In the morning I write:
Simple things that seem like dreams
that is the all that will be to come
appearing unconsciously
knocking on the door of the conscious
crying sighing open the door and let
me come in for I am important to your soul
and to your sense of self
where will you go and why do you go there?
when is the time for coming?
is it now?
will it be then?
would you tell me if you could
or shall I simply wait and wonder if the why shall be revealed?
This Christmas season feels less than than real this year. Even more than usual. Even as the snow whips by the window before gusting winds after another foot and half deep snowfall. And don't we sing "sleighbells ring" and "jingle bells"? All talk of snow, Christmas snow.
At church yesterday, the minister told a story which seemed to correspond with the poem I posted in this month's Thoughts of a Seeker and which I had written a week ago. The story was set in 12th century Italy, in a rich town which thought well of itself. Then a wolf took up residence in the nearby forest and appeared every night and killed whoever was abroad and alone at night. The townspeople heard of a monk who was reputed to talk to animals, and they sent and asked him to come and talk to the wolf and tell it to go elsewhere to find its sustenance, to some other town which was not so important as their's. The monk came and went into the forest and talked with the wolf. He reappeared in the town and gave them this message: "Feed your wolf."
It was not the message the townfolk wanted to hear. When night fell, and doors shut, the wolf returned to the town. In one street as it passed, a door opened and a plate of meat slid out on the step. It ate and went back to the forest. So it went every night, a different door opened and food appeared on the doorstep. No more people died by the wolf's teeth.
The monk: Francis of Assisi.
The moral: Feed your wolf. Take care of that which you would deny and turn away and run frightened from.
That which you fear will sit upon your shoulder. Take in that shadow that haunts your heart; comfort it and love it.
Copyright 2003 by Cherie Staples. No reproduction without written permission.
Table of Contents
Letter to the Author: Cherie Staples at skyearth1@aol.com