By the time this posts, I will be on the trail. If all is well. For a good bit of the day I will chase slanting rays of sunlight through the trees. I will share the company of chipmunks, owls, snakes, squirrels, deer, and several hundred birds. Though I might not see all of them. I will breathe air scented by blossoms and old leaves and raw wood. And there is a fairly good chance that there will be rain. And I will be glad. And listen as it trickles down through the canopy, over branches and leaves. And feel the cool of it against hot, salty skin.
And I will be healed by the miles of dust and hills. And washed. And I will know my place…
Thank you, Mary Oliver, for these words…
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.