Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.
The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.
A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.
Darling, I know something about love.
It isn’t dressed in hazard red.
It isn’t laced in road closed puns.
Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.
There is a dusting on the road…
a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.
Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.
But then again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.
There had been a moment, moons ago. A fraction of time between the anarchy and cluttered lawlessness. Miles from anyway. Deep down a dirt road. I ran. I knew flight had been my only way out. That flight led me to the forest. No longer did I hide. I could search my soul. I could become acutely aware of all that surrounds me. The forest became a nurturer and protector.
Go to a Forest.
Walk slowly. Breathe.
Open all your senses.
This is the healing way of Shinrin-yoku Forest Therapy,
the medicine of simply being in the forest.
…many trees give off organic compounds that support our “NK” (natural killer) cells that are part of our immune system’s way of fighting cancer.
Just as impressive are the results that we are experiencing as we make this part of our regular practice:
- Boosted immune system functioning, with an increase in the count of the body’s Natural Killer (NK) cells.
- Reduced blood pressure
- Reduced stress
- Improved mood
- Increased ability to focus, even in children with ADHD
- Accelerated recovery from surgery or illness
- Increased energy level
- Improved sleep
- Deeper and clearer intuition
- Increased flow of energy
- Increased capacity to communicate with the land and its species
- Increased flow of eros/life force
- Deepening of friendships
- Overall increase in sense of happiness
A Late Walk
When I go up through the mowing field,
the headless aftermath,
smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
half closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
the whir of sober birds
up from the tangle of withered weeds
is sadder than any words
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
but a leaf that lingered brown.
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
comes softly rattling down.
I end not far from my going forth
by picking the faded blue
of the last remaining aster flower
to carry again to you.
Holding on with nails contrived of slush, sleet and ice.
And, thaws of disillusionment, months long.
Delicately placed only to provide a rust for the eyes.
Urging December’s heartbreak to no longer cry.
Intrinsically based upon a melting last call.
An urging of December’s heartbreak to no longer cry.
Everyday I walk.
I am reborn.
No need for brick and mortar edifices, to place scorn.
No awaiting others to blaze a path.
To begin thoughtful salvation.
It is only my shadow I must cast.