128: Glade

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At last I find some calm. A strange peace moves between the trees, like the rustling of being which does not need to announce itself. An undercurrent of claiming rises beside the prostrate trunk. This place, it says, is mine, has always been mine, will always be mine. And the running roots of it take hold of my feet, gently, with blessing, so that I am connected, stilled, known. The acorns patter down from above and the blackberries swell in their ripeness. Here I may breathe.

Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

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