A Pilgrimage to the Deep Forest

A Pilgrimage to the Deep Forest Haibun and Prose

L. A. Gainer

A Pilgrimage to the Deep Forest

by L. A. Gainer

The Hidden Garden Songs From the Summit

A Pilgrimage to the Deep Forest -----------L. A. Gainer

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Š Copyright, 2015, L. A. Gainer

A Pilgrimage to the Deep Forest

Prologue It is the fortunate traveler who discovers that the Path of this World leads only to vanity and vexation of spirit, and instead makes the decision to take the Unknown Path, which leads to the High Places. Those who embark upon this second Path will have to pass through many valleys and desert places before they are able to ascend to higher ground, but since this journey is the only reason for which men were created, they will find that even the hardships and mishaps of this path bring them joy. Self, however, will have to be left behind, for only by traveling without it will their burdens be light enough to enable them to reach the Summit they seek.

Once they arrive at this Summit, all things will become clear to them; there they will discover the Great Spirit, Who has been waiting for them so that He might welcome His children into the comfort of His holy arms. * * * The grassy plain of our Valley rolls unhindered for many miles until it meets a barrier of broad foothills which ascend, after many twists and turns, to the High Places. Standing upon this flat land on a clear morning, amidst the fading lupines and sunflowers, one may watch the gold and crimson conflagration of the sun as it rises from behind the mountain peaks.

During the time this story takes place, we were experiencing a great drought. Everything was dry: the fields, the trees, the spirits of the people. Some speculated the drought might never end.

One day, as the first leaves of autumn drifted out of the trees, Steffan, my beloved, came to me and said it was time for us to journey to the High Places. My eyes opened wide, for I had dreamed a dream only a few nights before in which just such a sense came over me, but I had said nothing about it, believing it merely to be a whim.

Leaving the Valley was a frightening prospect to me. Few people ever left. The journey would require us to travel farther from home than we had ever been before, but we agreed that since both of us sensed the time had come, it could not be a coincidence. The Spirit was calling us. We had to go and discover what He wanted to say.

It is impossible, I suppose, to explain why one would go on such a journey simply because one had a sense of calling, or dreamed a dream, but those who have experienced such things will understand and those who have not experienced them will not be able to understand. We had no intimation as to when we should depart so we decided to wait. We would go about our business as usual until we sensed the time to leave had come.

It arrived one late September evening, as Steffan and I were taking our nightly stroll to the canal near our house. We arrived at the edge of the water, where the junipers and cedars grow tall, at around dusk. We waited, as was our custom, for the familiar call of the little screech owl who lived in one of the junipers.

We always looked forward to the sound of his plaintive little trill: Hoo, hoo, hoo-oo-oo-oo.

On a clear night we could often hear him all the way down to our house. On this night we saw a great many possums and lizards; they scattered into the underbrush at the first sounds of our approach.

We also saw the little brown bats that always swooped down from the trees about this time of night to feed along the canal. But we did not see the little owl. Nor did we see him the next night, or the next. He had left. We took this as a sign that the time had come for us to go.

We determined we would gather our things together and leave as soon as possible.

As we prepared to go the leaves kept falling, forming little piles all over the yard. The cats dived into them like pelicans splashing into bronze pools of water, caught up in the frenzy of activity that always overtook them this time of year. A wave of nostalgia swept over me at the thought of leaving them behind. Autumn was my favorite time of year; I loved working in the garden with the animals all around, but I comforted myself with the knowledge that it was important for us to go.

We packed only the barest essentials: warm clothing, a few books

by Lessius, a Kempis, Bernadot; cooking utensils, writing paper and food enough to see us through the first few days. We arranged for a neighbor to care for the animals and garden. In return we urged him to take all he wanted of the fruits and vegetables our garden produced.

Fortunately, an old friend offered us the use of a cabin located in a little village called Fish Camp, situated at an elevation of about 5,000 feet atop a ridge of mountains just below the High Places. It was a

perfect place to stay while we waited to see if the Great Spirit would call us to climb to higher ground. *** From the time of my youth I have not been an outgoing person. I tended to observe things, but since I was shy I seldom shared my observations with others. I walked the Path of this World like so many others, seeking and hoping for contentment, but I was never successful. At last, unable to continue seeking and hoping, I decided to leave the Path of the World and take the Unknown Path, hoping I would find the Great Spirit and that He would guide me to the High Places. But instead of being called to higher ground I was called to come to this Valley, where I had to work hard in order to make my way. Some years ago I met Steffan, who had also left the Path of the World and had hoped to climb to higher ground. He, too, had been led into the Valley, where he was called to work and to wait and to trust. This has been the business of our lives, to wait

upon the Great Spirit, work as we felt led and to listen for His Voice. And so, as you can see, to sense at last that the time had come to leave the Valley was a very great thing to us, even though we did not know exactly where we were to go or what we were to do. All we knew was we needed to leave behind the security of our little home and follow wherever the Great Spirit might lead. *** We packed our car and headed for the only road that led out of our village, out of the Valley and toward the High Places. It was a narrow road and very congested with people heading to and from their places of work. We made slow progress and had to stop frequently to allow pedestrians and cars to cross our path. At last we reached the outskirts of the village. Here the road was not crowded for few people ever left the main part of town: We followed the road that led out of the Valley, this dry dusty place in which we once felt at home but now did not recognize.

Everywhere we saw strange creatures in the shadows, serpents in the trees.

For several miles the road curled in and around a low set of elevations which looked like little tables rising out of the Valley floor.

The earthy tones of autumn were spreading over the fields, tinging them with the beauty that comes when the year begins to fade away.

The blue grama grass and fountain grasses were turning to gold and patches of cattails and pampas grass were splashing the pastures with broad strokes of copper and walnut-brown.

At last we started to climb into the low foothills. The impact of the drought was evident all around us but after a while we discovered a few of the streams had not completely dried up. Little trickles of water inched their way along the riverbeds and around the sunbaked rocks.

Water curls, tumbles

over the rock-studded paths made tepid by drought, this scalding, tree-singeing drought, which dries out the weary soul.

Soon we came upon a delightful scene: the first cherry-red sprinklings of Autumn sage and the hickory brown of Mojave buckwheat growing along the road. Steffan stopped the car so I could get out and pick a bouquet. The flower heads were still attracting a sprinkling of butterflies and as I gathered them they fluttered around me like sputtering candles. I wrapped the bouquet in a towel and packed some additional flowers into a little envelope, hoping I might be able to get some of the seeds to grow when we returned home.

It is in the very nature of a seed to grow, whether it is a seed from a flower or one that is planted within the heart. Everything that lives beneath the surface, whether it be a buckwheat seed or a disappointment or joy, has buried deep within it the need to come to the surface. If it is prevented from doing so it will usually find some other way out. If it is a seed it may go around the obstruction and come to the surface at another spot. If it is a hidden emotion and it isn’t allowed to express itself, it may come out as anxiety or illness. It is the nature of hidden things to want to come to the light.

After many miles we discovered oak trees dotting the hillsides.

Their craggy limbs stretched out over the pastures like empty arms seeking an embrace. Grey-barked buckeye trees also appeared, their fruit dangling in irregular-shaped pods from the tips of the branches. Autumn shone in the burnished bronze of the sycamore leaves and the auburn and copper foliage of crabapple trees. The mountains glistened blue in the afternoon haze and a gentle breeze drifted through the mountain passes and over the fields. Higher and higher we climbed, until we could no longer see the Valley floor.

Home and all that was connected with it disappeared from view.

Winds blow through the fields, combing the Earth’s golden hair, her face is content

After several hours the weather changed. The air became crisp and cool. The road became winding; tall cedars and oaks appeared in dense groves that pressed close to the road. A light fog formed, brushing the tips of the trees and creating an atmosphere of mystery as its wisps drifted down into the woods. We crossed a little bridge where two broad mountain slopes intersected and for the first time saw a most welcome sight: a stream full of water splashing over the rocks. After another hour of driving we reached Fish Camp. The sun dipped behind the mountains just as we turned off the highway onto a narrow road. Following the map our friend had given us, we rounded several sharp curves and there it was, the little cabin.

It was a tiny structure, almost square, with a deck surrounding the

front entry. As we opened the door we were greeted by the delicious scent of pine needles and oak.

The main room was small; it was dominated by a massive stone fireplace that took up almost an entire wall. A little kitchen was tucked in one corner behind a waist-high counter. A redwood table with benches on either side was situated near the front door and served as a dining table. A narrow hall off the main room led to a bedroom and bath; a steep stairway along the wall at the far side of the room led to two small bedrooms tucked under the eaves. Each was just large enough to hold a bed, a chair and a chest of drawers.

As we unpacked the fog rolled in, encasing our little refuge and making it impossible to see beyond the grove of redwoods surrounding the cabin. We made a fire, organized the kitchen and ate a quick dinner before climbing the stairs and choosing for our chamber a room that had a massive redwood tree growing just beyond the window sill. Then, exhausted, we burrowed ourselves into an old pine bed and dozed into a peaceful rest.

* * *

The storm woke me sometime after midnight and I listened to it for a long time. It was pleasant to watch the lightning dance upon the pine walls and hear the insistent rat-ta-tat of the rain upon the tin roof. It diminished at last to a gentle drizzle that lulled me back to sleep, cradled in the arms of night.

As we slept the thunder rumbled; lightning slashed the sky; roiling clouds slammed against the dark mountains.

Hillsides shook until the first shards of dawn fell like broken glass -still I heard the thunder shaking the distant hills.

Morning came, carrying air pure as snow blowing in the wind; the mountain grew still and cool, dogwoods shimmered in the light.

FIRST DAY I waken to hear bamboo wind chimes clink-clicking, rustling in the wind.

Beyond the sill sits a contented brown squirrel crunching on pine nuts, his teeth shining like square pearls gleaming in the morning sun; the clinks of the chime shower down like drops of rain upon fertile Earth -she opens her mouth to drink; she swallows the sound, and smiles.

The squirrel sat on the limb outside the window, no more than six feet from where I lay, his brown fur quivering slightly due to the wind.

He was most comical -- at times he would hang upside down and chomp away at the little nuts he discovered deep inside the cone.

I rose without waking Steffan and made my way down to the bath. It held a cabinet, a wash stand and a tiny shower stall. I turned on the

spigot and stepped under the warm flow of water ; it felt wonderful.

From the cubicle I could look out a little window across the room and see into the dense grove of redwood trees beyond. When I was finished I dried myself and reached for my robe: Its folds embrace me, gently caressing my skin, I am warm; and new I let Steffan sleep and while he slept I found a vase in a cupboard and placed the little bouquet of buckwheat blossoms into it. I made coffee and a simple breakfast of cooked cereal and fruit and took it upstairs on a tray. When he awoke we sat on the bed, sipped our coffee and ate breakfast. We talked a long while about our plans for the day. Then we fell into silence, intent on listening to the sounds of the woods. I set my little buckwheat bouquet upon the window sill: One may glimpse - among flowers reflecting on glass -God’s image, smiling.

In spite of the storm the air warmed quickly and by mid-morning there was only a slight chill in the air. After washing up the dishes we settled into two overstuffed chairs by the windows in the main room and had a fine view of the trees. Neither of us felt much like talking. We were exhausted. Instead, we sipped more coffee, enjoyed the view and listened to the intense silence of the woods.

A little later in the day we took a short walk to explore our immediate surroundings and found there were quite a few cabins, small and humble, just like the one in which we were staying, scattered throughout the woods. When we returned Steffan wanted to continue exploring so he headed back up the road while I stayed at the cabin. I tried thumbing through several books but I hardly read a word. Instead, I looked out the window, feeling as if a wave of emptiness were washing over me.

It was hard sitting quietly within the stillness but I forced myself to rest and let the forest surround me without busying myself in activity.

Finally I felt I had to move around so I went outside. A blue flash whizzed by me and I discovered it to be a colorful little bird; it had fluttered down through the trees and onto a shrub beside the porch. It sat quietly for quite some time and seemed not to have a care in the world. Then he sang a little song full of brief, staccato chirps.

Blue and gold songbird, Shimmering in the sunlight -He sings, flies away -laughing

When Steffan returned I sensed he, too, was pensive. He told me about a little lodge he had discovered at the end of the road he had taken. Because of the lateness of the season it no longer had many lodgers but its owners we still on site and operating its small dining room. He suggested we visit it one day soon.

Then he began to share. Slowly, haltingly, he talked about the things he felt bubbling up from deep inside, things that had been pressed down for a long time. He shared about the upheaval he had experienced during the many preceding months; about the fear, the uncertainty, and his desire draw closer to the Great Spirit’s will. I also shared, about many similar things. We talked for hours, for the time had come to talk. We talked until hunger forced us to put together a simple meal and then we talked again, far into the night, until the heaviness in us started to subside. At last we fell silent. My eye fell on the little buckwheat bouquet and I noticed that one of the flowers which had been a tight little bud at the time I picked it was opening a little.

The deep and holy silence within the flower urges it to bloom: It can’t open all at once, miracles happen slowly.

At midnight we mounted the stairs, exhausted, but we also knew the healing had begun.

SECOND DAY The next morning we awoke refreshed, made coffee, ate breakfast and decided we would make ourselves useful. The cabin was adorned with not one but three decks, each located at a different level. The upper deck was the smallest of the three, adjacent to the front door. The middle one was located on a ledge half-way down a stairway at the side of the cabin. The third was constructed at the base of the stairs and was the largest. It contained a large plank table adorned with an umbrella and benches on each side.

We swept each deck with great gusto since they were covered with needles, pine cones and other debris that had fallen from the trees during the storm. We finished by noon and decided to reward our efforts with a hike down to the village of Fish Camp which lay at the base of the mountain. It consisted of a little general store, a post office and an old lodge the store owner informed us had been deserted for years.

We bought provisions and talked with the owner a while. He told us about a stream named Big Creek that ran along the foot of a nearby hill. We hiked down and discovered a lovely spot for a picnic. The stream hardly lived up to its name -- it was so narrow one could easily walk across it -- but it was lovely nonetheless. It trickled along beneath the dappled shade of aspens and dogwoods and the foliage on either side was lush and green. It was good to hear the water splashing over the rocks.

We unpacked our little lunch of cheese and bread and apples, and watched the sun play upon the water as we ate.

Beyond the shadows, breezes weave ferns into quilts that comfort the Earth.

It is a cool place, sheltered from the noonday sun, quiet, uncluttered.

Moss and baby tears cling to the shoreline; frogs leap, blue jays perch on limbs; here the green dampness brings refreshment to the soul, lifts it like a breeze, or, rather, a butterfly, fluttering into the sky

After we finished eating we hiked upstream for a hundred yards or so until we came to a little pool where the water was still.

We savor the peace in reverent contentment, ponder the soft Voice; it speaks in words unspoken, a deep and holy message.

The stream made a soft, gurgling sound as it poured itself into the pond. I knelt beside it, watching little slivers of golden light reflect off the surface of the water, and collected a few small rocks to take back to the cabin. A mother duck with four ducklings swam by us.

She seemed not at all perturbed be our presence. Her little flock followed her down the stream, single-file, obediently, imitating her

every move, expertly circumventing the rocks, paddling through eddies, until they came to a little pool beneath a ledge about fifty yards away.

Mottled like the rocks, the mother leads her quartet; they circle and splash, feeding until it is time to head home -- all in a row -back to where the water falls, back to where the ferns are cool, paddling in unison to the rhythm of the stream.

When the sun dipped behind the mountaintops we started back to the cabin. We plodded along slowly, listening to leaves as they crumbled beneath our shoes, and to the gentle rustling of the trees when the wind whispered to their limbs.

The weather was so mild that evening we decided to eat dinner on the lower deck. All along one side of it, a long raised planter had been constructed out of brick. It was bare now, devoid of any plants.

I had purchased several packets of poppy seeds at the little store and thought it might be nice to plant one of them into the planter.

Then, when our kind benefactor next visited his cabin in the spring he would be greeted by the sight of their beautiful blooms.

Few things are smaller than a poppy seed. I took one out of the packet and held it in my hand. How amazing to think of the miracle contained within it. To the naked eye this little seed looked no more complicated than a grain of sand, small enough to disappear into a pin prick. But, if placed under a microscope, one would discover this little grain to be an asymmetrical globe pocked all over with tiny depressions. Packed inside of it were thousands of messages, all ready to be translated, under the right conditions, into stems and leaves and blossoms as beautiful as rubies and diamonds sparkling under a springtime sun.

Petals of tissue, held aloft on threadlike stems, bowing to the wind.

White and ruby sails, cast upon pure waves of light sent down from Heaven.

Single poppy seed, vessel of beauty and joy, world of holy love.

Once the seeds were planted I put away the trowel and other tools and Steffan and I sat on the deck, waiting for dusk to settle over the trees. We heard a rustling in the trees and saw a branch was occupied by two mourning doves. We wondered what had brought them to this place since doves seldom visited elevations as high as these.

Mourning doves are monogamous and form strong unions with one another. We had many doves in our garden at home and often saw pairs return for a second and even a third year to build their nests in one of the little baskets we put out for them around our property.

Courtship usually gets under way when a male makes a graceful, gliding descent with his wings outstretched. Once he lands he will approach the female with his breast puffed out and head bobbing, hoping his performance will win her approval. After the female chooses a nesting spot, the male will go in search of twigs and grasses and bring them to her. It is the female who actually constructs the nest.

These doves sat so close to one another they touched. Every once in a while they repositioned themselves an inch or so to one side or the other. We all sat quietly, not moving, until the darkness fell. * * * There is a legend of an old monk who served as a porter in a forest monastery. One day he heard a bird singing and went outside to find it. The song was so lovely he listened intently for a long while.

When he returned to the monastery he found no one there was recognizable. A hundred years had passed since he had first gone in search of the bird.

How important it is to completely give ourselves to each moment.

Life is certainly far from being as magical as the parable of the monk in the forest, but the lesson is still valid. How can I learn to be completely present to the moments of my day? I must ask for the Great Spirit’s grace. He will have mercy on my weaknesses and show me how to live, how to walk in gratitude instead of wishing for what I do not have, how to be surrendered to Him and open to His direction, moment by moment, day by day. * * * A gentle wind rustled the trees and caused the bamboo chimes to clink together. The noise startled the doves and off they flew, into the darkness. I still could not imagine why they were there, so far from their normal habitat. Perhaps they, too, were on a journey calling on them to travel far from home, for a reason they did not yet understand.

Doves descend to us, Perch upon a cedar limb, Watch us in the dark.

Bamboo stalks collide, Breaking the evening silence, The pair flies away.

THIRD DAY The next morning we decided would be a stay-at-home day. Our hike had been exhilarating but now we felt the need to be still, so we might be able to hear should the Spirit wish to speak.

I spent a short time tidying up and by noon settled myself with some of my books at the little table on the lower deck. I read from the Canticles: “As an apple tree among the trees of the forest, so is my beloved . . . The fig tree ripens its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance.

Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come away.�

I lit some incense and watched as its thread-like trail of smoke curled into the branches of the pines.

By mid-afternoon the plants around the edge of the deck looked dry so I got out the watering can. I found a little snail, Helix aspersa, climbing along the shady side of one of the pots, trying to escape the sun. I picked him up and studied his shell. Almost translucent, it was the color of sand, with whorls that wound round and round in perfect symmetry. Were it not for my chance arrival this little creature might never have been noticed by a human being, yet some creative Hand had chosen to craft its shell with incredible care.

Many of us have shells, in one form or another.

Some can be seen. Some cannot. Do we not often create them for ourselves, as the gastropods

do, seeking to provide ourselves with protection from danger or pain? Some of us construct shells that are so thick there is little that can penetrate them. Sometimes they become so dense they cannot be penetrated, even when we want them to, unless the Spirit comes to heal us and assure us it is safe to leave the old shells behind.

I wondered how old this little specimen might be. Two years, three years perhaps? Snails of this variety don’t usually live longer than five years; I did not want to deprive this one of its life span so I placed it in a protected place under a bush and let it go on its way.

The little snail climbs, seeking escape from the sun, the safety of shade.

Etched by a deft Hand, its shell is a work of art, a house carved with love.

DAY FOUR The next day we climbed along Big Creek until we discovered where it emerged at the top of a ridge. The stream was wider here and fell in sharp angles over the rocks into a shallow pool. From here we had a bird’s eye view of Fish Camp, looking small and quiet beneath the noonday sun. We plunged our bare feet into the icy pool and felt the current flow between our toes. A flash of white appeared near us and settled upon a rock at the edge of the stream. It was an egret, white as a cloud, looking like a bit of fluff

caught upon two sticks. His beak was a toothpick sticking into the air. After standing motionless for a long while he moved in slow motion to a shallow area near the shore.

Perching on one leg -watching -- stick-straight, motionless; Splash -- fish in the beak.

Over a period of about twenty minutes he managed to snare three fish, moving only slightly between each catch. Then he rose, seemingly without effort, his wings unfurling like sails upon the wind, and flew away, splashing, cresting, mounting the waves of the sky. He was a silence, floating upon the blue, a flame flickering in the vast expanse. He circled the area where we sat, gliding, skimming the spires, surveying the landscape as the late afternoon shadows poured themselves onto the hills.

As evening settled, the fog closed in over the riverbed. Searching the glades, it crawled at last into its embrace. And all the while the egret kept circling, soaring above the stream and pines, illuminated by a rising moon that shone bronze through the fog, until he slipped out of sight, sailing homeward in silent, solitary flight.

DAY FIVE Steffan related an interesting story to me the following day. He said that as a child he remembered being told by his parents about a strange little cabin located in Fish Camp that had belonged to some family friends. It had been built around a giant redwood tree.

I couldn’t imagine such a thing but he claimed it was true. He said his parents had visited it several times.

We decided to see if it might still exist. We walked down to the highway, crossed it and followed a winding dirt road that wound up into the trees. We searched a long time and could find no sign of it.

Then, just as we were about to give up on our quest, we stumbled upon it, a tiny lean-to cabin, just as Steffan had described it, built around the trunk of a huge redwood tree.

Surprisingly, it was occupied. The current owner had come up for a few days to make repairs before winter set in and he was busily at work when we walked up to him. He was very gracious, and amused at the fame of his little home. He told us he had purchased the cabin only a few years ago, after the former owners had grown too old to take care of it any longer.

There was hardly any room inside the cabin in which to move around. A cot was situated on one side of the trunk and on the other was a table and two chairs. All cooking had to take place outside, under the trees, in a hollowed-out pit encircled by river rock.

As Steffan talked with the owner, a Mr. Furness, I explored the grounds and found a tub of chrysanthemums blooming beside the front door. The flowers, in various shades of pink and yellow, were packed tight with petals and looked out of place amidst the deep

forest shadows. “My wife,” said Mr. Furness, noticing my interest in the arrangement. “You can’t keep her from putting flowers somewhere, no matter where we go. She’s down at the store now and will probably come home with even more.” I knew I would take a liking to Mrs. Furness.

I recalled a fable in which a little girl named Rose, who loved flowers, went with her brother to her mother’s garden one day. They picked some flowers and, as children will, they tossed the petals into the air to see how high they would go. Because she was such a loving child, it was said, the Spirit suspended Rose’s petals in the air for several moments so He might enjoy their fragrance. After this He formed them into a Cross as a sign of His love for her, before permitting them to fall to the ground.

Would it not be wonderful if we, each day, would toss to the Spirit all our intentions, our plans, our schemes, just as Rose tossed her little petals into the air? What would happen if I offered all the duties and desires of my day in such a way? Might the Spirit also find them fragrant? Might He enjoy them and even form them, somehow, into the mark of the Cross, as a sign that He has found another child whose heart is full of love?

Delicate petals, cast with joy into the sky, never to fall back to an unbelieving earth, but gathered into Heaven by a kind and loving Hand

DAY SIX The next day we took a long walk through a meadow near the river and found one edge of it full of dog briar roses, probably the remains of a little garden dismantled long ago. Even though the cedars towering over the scene cast a great deal of shade over the area the plants had managed to produce a great many pink blossoms.

It would have been easy to pass by these little roses. Too small a flower, too many prickles, and besides, a dog briar rose is not a showy flower, not like a tea rose or damask. It is just a hedgerow wilding with a penchant for growing into a tangled mass. But looks are deceiving. The dog briar rose is in truth a fine shrub with a proud and important history.

Some believe it was a white form of dog briar rose, during some long-past age somewhere in the Middle East, that joined with a damask rose to form the Alba roses so much prized today by rose connoisseurs. The dog briar rose is known as a “Keystone� shrub, which means it is essential to the survival of other plants as well as many animals and insects that inhabit the area where it grows.

For instance, dog briar roses provide shelter for cottontails, wood rats and other small animals that rely upon them for protection from predators. An established clump of wild rose is an almost impenetrable thicket that is capable of preventing large animals from attacking their prey. The bushes are also a source of heps, which supply Vitamin C to animals during the winter, when little other fruit is available. Its flowers also support pollinators like bees and butterflies during its long blooming season. And so, this little shrub, the Rosa

canina, so seemingly unimportant, turns out to be a treasure. It occupies its humble place, provides food and shelter and protection, and does not seek to be anything other than what it is.

I am asked to do the same, to work and seek to do the Spirit’s will even when I may not be noticed, to bloom even when some of my days are covered over with shade and shadows.

Some believe the blessed life is to be found in uninterrupted contemplation. Others say it is reached by accomplishing great things.

But there are others who suggest it is really in performing the simple duties of the state in which the Spirit has placed us. Which do I believe? Do I set about each day to respond well to what the Spirit sends? Do I give honor to the state to which I have been called or am I always seeking to be something other than what I am, to be somewhere other than where I am? Whether I am in sunlight or shade, let me do as the Spirit wishes. Let me persevere so the fruit of my life may ripen into what He desires.

Dog Brier roses open their buds to the world; pink petals sparkle with translucent dew, reflecting the golden rays of the noonday sun.

DAY SEVEN After suffering from a bit of cabin fever, we decided to strike out on our own the next day and venture up to higher ground. We had not sensed any actual prompting to do so but I suppose we felt we simply had to escape the confines of the cabin.

Our map revealed that several miles up the highway there was a turnoff that wound into some higher elevations along the eastern ridge of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, so we decided to explore it. The thought of how beautiful the area must be convinced us we should make the trip.

We had no trouble locating the turnoff and found the scenery was every bit as beautiful as we had hoped. Tall pines and beautiful dogwoods surrounded us on every side. However, after a couple of hours things changed rapidly. Despite a forecast of good weather, clouds started to form over the ridges. We drove on for another hour or so, hoping the weather would clear, but soon the sky turned gray, strong winds started to swirl through the passes and a biting chill descended. We came upon a ranger station and asked for news. They told us a major storm had been detected coming in from the north and was due to arrive shortly. The clouds grew darker even as we carried on our conversation; it became obvious we needed to turn around.

As we snaked our way home the clouds turned the color of pewter and formed a dark tunnel over the road. Within an hour every bit of blue had disappeared from the sky. The wind increased, tossing our little car this way and that as we rounded the curves. By the time we rounded the turn that brought us back to Fish Camp we breathed a sigh of relief at returning to the safety of our little cabin.

We brought firewood in from the porch and closed the windows against the cold. As darkness fell the sky suddenly opened up. This was a much bigger storm than the one on the night of our arrival. Rain poured out of the clouds. The thunder was deafening. Lightning flashes slashed the sky. It felt as though all the heat and heaviness of summer was being washed out of the land. Even though the storm was frightening, it was also exciting, exhilarating.

Leaf falls upon leaf Rain tumbles down upon rain The earth is washed clean Man takes his shelter Seeks protection from the storm Feels its strength -- and joy

The storm continued throughout the evening, lessening as the hours went by. Finally the pitter-patter of the rain faded and it began to snow. It drifted out of the sky, slowly and steadily, until well past midnight, when the clouds parted to reveal a pearl white moon and stars that glistened like fireflies on a warm summer evening.

Stars in the black sky tumble into the cold pond, light the frozen night.

DAY EIGHT When we looked out the window in the morning we discovered the world had burrowed herself under a blanket of white. The air was crisp as new paper and though we had to dress in layers to shield us from the cold we couldn’t bear the thought of staying inside. We took a long walk, then headed back down the road to the store, energized by the scent of the pines and the new-fallen snow.

Mountaintops resting on fluffy white cloud pillows far above crow flight.

The store was full of people. Some were residents, others were snow-bound travelers. Everyone talked about the storm: Yes, we barely made it back to our cabin in time; yes, the roof leaked a little but we think we have it fixed; no, we didn’t lose trees but several limbs look precarious; we’ll need to get out the saw.

The store owner, who had a radio, told everyone the storm had been most severe on the same road we had traveled the previous day.

Several other people who had been on it had been stranded in the snow; rangers had been called out to rescue them. Steffan and I looked at one another. Had we not stumbled onto the ranger station and learned about the approaching storm we might well have been among those trapped by the storm and requiring help.

For the next two days we watched the snow melt and kept busy tending the cabin. The forest animals were also coping with the change in conditions. Squirrels burrowed deep to find nuts they had buried; deer descended from higher elevations to hollow out little circular beds in the snow.

Twittering sparrows scratch into the crusty snow hunting for next spring.

On the third day the sun emerged, warm and insistent. We bought provisions and heard the forecast now called for fine weather over the next few days, but we did not consider venturing out again on our own. We were certain we should stay put until the Spirit spoke.

We were having lunch on the lower porch the next afternoon when we sensed His call. It was simply a gentle impression, which both of us felt at the same moment, that the time had come.

For a while we didn’t speak. Actually there was very little we could say. We simply knew it was time to leave the cabin and head to the higher elevations. We packed immediately and agreed we would leave first thing the following day.

DAY NINE We examined our map the next morning and determined we would head toward Yosemite, the great forested area to the northeast of where we had been staying. Once inside the entrance we would make the decision as to where to go next. As we made our way along the winding road we asked the Great Spirit to show us what to do. The road became more winding and the trees more beautiful and glorious as we drew closer to the forest entrance. Once inside we sensed we should head east, toward the grove of massive trees known as the Giant Redwood Forest.

For the first couple of miles the road curved along the edge of the mountain. Every new turn in the road exposed us to fresh vistas of the vast forest below. Sometimes we found ourselves facing due-west and were nearly blinded by the glare of the afternoon sun, but before long we headed inland and everything changed. We were plunged into the inner sanctum of the Giant Redwoods. Here the trees formed a great canopy that blocked out almost all sunlight. Some of them were nearly a thousand years old and towered over 300 feet into the air. We gazed at them in awed silence.

I learned, however, that these giants are far from indestructible. In fact, they are much like people, vulnerable to what is going on in the environment around them. Since their root systems are shallow, the soil above them must not be contaminated. It’s not healthy for too many humans to trample over the areas close to the trees. In order to protect themselves, Redwoods intertwine their roots with those of other Redwood trees nearby. This helps to stabilize them so they will remain firmly anchored during the fierce storms that sweep through

the forest during the long winter months. How similar we humans are to these trees. So often we seem to be strong and self sufficient, yet, underneath, we are sensitive to the conditions around us; we, too, need to be closely connected to our own kind, to receive their strength and support so we will be able to survive the storms of life.

When I stand beneath the redwoods I want to bow my head and ask why no one kneels; instead, I see people craning their necks, dropping wrappers on the ground, leaving in little buses with signs on the doors.

Beneath my feet the roots go searching for one another and, finding, they weave a coverlet beneath the forest floor, knowing they must intertwine, like you and I, so they will not fall when the great storms come.

We left the Redwoods and headed west, climbing higher for some time until we dropped into a little valley containing the village of Wawona. Since it was growing late we decided this was where we would set up camp. We found a secluded spot along a river and unpacked our things.

Wawona lies at an elevation of about 5,000 feet. It is at such heights that the Giant Redwoods are found, but at higher elevations other trees grow which are even larger than the Redwoods. They are known as the Giant Sequoias. The Sequoias are not as tall as the redwoods, nor do they live as long, but they are often more massive.

Some are over 30 feet in diameter and weight nearly 2 million pounds.

The word “Wawona” is a Miwok word; one of its translations means “the hoot of the owl.” The Miwoks considered owls to be the spiritual guardians of the Giant Sequoias. I couldn’t help but think of our little owl back home. Somehow, as tiny as owls are in comparison with these giant trees, I did not find it difficult to imagine how they might seem to have the ability to guard them. Stranger things than this can happen in the world of the spirit. Where was our little owl this night?

Would we ever see him again?

After setting up our tent Steffan dug a pit in which we would build our campfire. He worked quickly, clearing the area around the pit and placing river rock at its base. Then he gathered enough twigs and fallen limbs for the campfire. The soil he had unearthed was comprised of rich, dark humus; it had a wonderful smell, a combination of needles, pine wood and oak leaves.

The word “humus” is Latin for “earth.” It is the root word from which we get the word “humility.” Humus is the dark, decomposed organic

matter that makes the soil fertile and enables it to retain water. Some experts think the word may have originated from early Latin words such as “humi," which means "on the ground," and "humilis," which means "low." This might explain why many people have come to view the state of “humility” as something to be avoided, because much of what is associated with it seems to be undesirable. But when we recognize the word “humus” refers to the condition of the earth, it becomes a marvelous word. It is the condition of being fertile, life-giving, full of nutrients.

One of the miracles implanted within the earth is its ability to receive whatever is placed into her, including not only man’s refuse and castoffs but also all the animal and vegetable matter that has died and is ready to return to her, and, through the magnificent process instilled in her by the Great Spirit, is able to transform it all into matter that is again life-giving. This amazing ability enables her to embrace a seed and nurture it until it is able to germinate, grow and produce a hundred-fold -- even a thousand-fold -- of its own kind.

Doesn’t the Spirit desire the same state of fertility for me? Does He not wish me to also be life-giving instead of life-sapping, to respond to evil by doing good, to drink in His life-giving power so I may not only benefit from it myself but also pass it along to others?

As I explored the area along the riverbank I discovered the remains of a cicada. It was still green and intact, appearing to have died only recently; It was lying amidst some tall grass at the edge of the water.

What amazing care had been taken to create this little creature.

Cicada eggs are deposited by the mother into the branch of a tree or some other protected place, where they remain until they emerge as

nymphs. At this stage they fall to the ground and burrow deep into the soil where they stay until late spring or early summer, when they are miraculously roused and inspired to make their way to the surface.

Mature at last, they emerge equipped to trill their nighttime songs and fly far above the hillsides and riverbanks. Freedom! And here was this small miracle before me, surrounded by wildflowers and meadow grasses, its tiny life cycle fulfilled.

Little cicada -your refrains sung long ago, yet I can hear them.

Since we intended to explore the terrain the next day I decided to prepare our food ahead of time. While Steffan built up the fire I made a simple stew of vegetables and placed it in a little kettle I had brought from the cabin. Then I gathered the ingredients I needed to bake a loaf of bread.

I placed sugar, yeast, flour, salt and milk into a pan and stirred until it formed a soft dough. A bit of parchment paper laid over a flat rock served as my breadboard. Over and over I kneaded the dough until it was elastic and smooth as silk. Then I let it rest. After an hour I punched it down and repeated the process all over again.

There are times when I feel a lot like bread dough. I feel pressed and stretched by the ups and downs of life.

Bread dough must be kneaded in order to make a loaf that is edible.

Otherwise the bread will be tough. I suppose it is the same way where we people are concerned.

What kneading does for bread dough is to expand the gliadin and glutenin proteins within the flour. This imparts air into the dough and creates the light texture necessary to make the bread tender. We humans must also be kneaded, over and over, by the circumstances of life, to help remove the natural heaviness and lack of flexibility in our characters. How else will our hearts, which seem by nature to want to stay brittle and unpliable, become tenderized?

After kneading, bread must be shaped by the baker and set aside so it can rest, preferably in a somewhat warm and undisturbed place.

Without this period of rest the bread will not rise. Same with me. If I am not allowed to rest after a period of kneading and being buffeted, I have the tendency to collapse. I fail to rise.

It’s comfortable to be left alone to rest, to not have any serious problems to face or challenges to overcome. But this is never a permanent state, for man or for bread. After the period of rest is over, bread must be punched down. People seem to need punching down, too, though most of us can testify this is never much fun.

When we are punched down by life it usually means the air is being taken out of our sails. No one I know likes being put through such an experience but it seems to be part of the process we must go through, and not just once, but over and over again. Our dreams must be crushed. Our hopes dashed. Our plans brought to nothing. It seems to be the only way we can be brought to recognize our

powerlessness, that we are not the ones in control of our lives. Until we are punched down with regularity we simply can’t become tender enough to fulfill the purposes the Spirit has for our lives.

Once my little loaf had risen I placed it on some rocks at the edge of the fire so it could bake. Then I put the kettle of stew over the coals until it came to a boil.

“Courage,” said Saint Teresa one day to her daughters in the convent. “Take courage! When obedience fills your time with exterior things, do not be afflicted; if you are sent to the kitchen, then understand well that Our Lord is there in the midst of the kettles.”

Yes, He is there with us, in the kitchen or the board room or the oil field, the office or nursery, ready to show us how to guide a corporation, tend a family or watch over a little kettle as it cooks over an open fire. He is with us in the midst of our duties, our errands, our difficulties, our joys, our tragedies. Wherever we are, He is pleased to help us with all we must do, if we will let Him. It is good to be where the Lord has placed us. How foolish it is to desire to be somewhere else.

What use are any of our efforts if we are seeking to be someplace to which God has not called us? We must ask Him

where He wants us to go and what He wants us to do. And then we must be open to Him so He may impart to us the love and secrets He wishes to share.

DAY EIGHT Early the next morning we hiked along the river and discovered an old covered bridge about a mile upstream. As we crossed it we could see the water rushing beneath our feet through the cracks in the ancient beams of wood. After a mile or so we came to a little hamlet of cabins and beyond this found a river called Chilnualna. As we climbed along its banks we heard what sounded like distant thunder emanating from behind a shelf of rock. We rounded a cleft in the hillside and found the sound was coming from a great waterfall cascading like a broad white ribbon over a cliff high overhead: Chilnualna Falls bursts out of a frothing cloud, casts itself wildly over the sheer granite cliff, singing, dancing, heralding joy.

We discovered a steep, narrow path at the edge of the river ascended toward the summit of the waterfall. Steffan suggested we climb it and I said I would try. As we climbed, the sound of the water grew almost deafening. The path was winding

and difficult. We had to place our feet carefully so we didn’t slip on the damp rocks. For a long while I was afraid I would not be able to make the climb to the top. I had to stop several times to catch my breath and give my heart time to stop beating so rapidly. But soon I gathered strength. Before long I was able to climb with increasing ease and by the time we reached the half-way point I felt like a different person. I could breathe easily, had a fresh burst of energy and the shaky feeling in my legs had all but disappeared.

This kind of climb is much like the life the Spirit asks us to live. He often seems to require us to climb to heights we fear at first we can never reach. But He keeps pressing us onward. Like a mother eagle, He stirs our nest and makes it so uncomfortable we are forced to leave it and attempt to fly. He permits challenges and difficulties to afflict us according to His mysterious will. He permits our selfconfidence to be shattered so we will recognize our impotence and helplessness without Him. In this knowledge, however, we also discover He is there, like the mother eagle, ready to swoop down and rescue us and carry us to safety.

“Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who works in you...” wrote the Apostle Paul (Ph 2:12-13). We must do our part but it is God Who is always at work within us. He asks us to do what we can but He never expects more than this. So, let us not faint when we must climb, when we must work things out in “fear and trembling,” for, despite our feelings of uncertainty, we can still know it is God who is working within us and that He will never fail to come to our aid, to carry us in His arms and deliver us to safety.

DAY NINE The next day we crossed the Chilnualna and discovered a dirt path about a hundred yards upstream. We had a sense that we should follow it and trust that the Spirit would lead us where He wanted us to go. The path remained level for a couple of miles but then turned sharply and veered uphill at a steep angle.

We rounded many curves, each of which seemed to lead precariously close to the edge of a cliff. I was often dizzy and had to cling to large rocks or branches of trees in order to keep my balance, but the views of the forest far below were beautiful and breathtaking.

At last the road dipped into a broad meadow where we stopped beside a little stream to rest. The air was crisp and cold and the fragrance of waning autumn was in the air. Deer grazed in the grass. We settled ourselves under a grove of oaks and sycamores and sat silently for a long while, watching the wildlife and the sun as it made its slow journey along its westward arc. Finally it dipped into the pines, sprinkling golden shafts of light among the trees.

A pair of squirrels chased each other with great fervency along the branches of one of the sycamores. Quite possibly one of their forefathers had been responsible for helping to plant this same tree. How often it is that something small and seemingly unimportant is responsible for the creation of something large and imposing. This particular tree was at least eight feet in diameter and towered a good seventyfive feet into the air. Its leaves were twice the size of a man’s hand and turning the color of burnished brass -- even at a distance I could hear them rustling against each other in the wind.

The loveliest tree in the world may be a sycamore moored beside a river that flows through meadow grass; its bone-shaded limbs are bedecked with forest fragrance, with crackling leaves.

Between them is a space where I pour myself, and where I shall remain.

It was a heavenly scene, one that could only have been created by Love. Everything that grew here, all that grazed, all that moved, had

within it Something that did not exist in our Valley. Here there was no anxiety, nor contention, nor hurry. Here there was gentleness, and patience. Everything seemed to be at peace with itself.

How is it that I might develop this attribute of patience? The Spirit is never impatient, never anxious to make a tree grow faster than it is able, to bring forth fruit before its time, to transform my life before I am ready. I want to be more like this. How am I to attain a greater likeness to Him? The word “patience” comes from a Latin word for suffering. It implies we are under the constraint of some power or difficulty from which we would gladly be free. When we are young our tendency is to escape from our difficulties. With more experience we learn this isn’t always possible. Suffering exists. We can’t always avoid it. We must try to learn from it. Otherwise we are bound to become discouraged or embittered by life’s trials. Surrendering myself to the Spirit in the midst of suffering is difficult, but it is the way that leads me closer to Him. I must ask Him for the graces I need to submit myself to the mystery of His will. As Mother Barat once said: “A single ‘God be praised’ in suffering is worth more than a thousand of them when we are in joy.”

“I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry.

He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear the Lord and put their trust in him.” --Ps 40:1-3

Our attention was drawn to the opposite edge of the meadow where we noticed the oaks and sycamores were growing very close together.

At a point about two hundred yards from where we sat we noticed their gnarled, intertwining limbs formed a natural tunnel that was filled with shadows. At the far end of the tunnel was a pool of golden light.

We got up and walked toward the tunnel, slowly, almost gingerly, and as we walked the sounds of the river behind us subsided and we heard only the sound of the dry leaves as they crumbled under our feet, and the twittering of the birds that stirred amidst the upper branches of the trees. Then we realized that this tunnel was in fact the entrance to the Deep Forest.

Holy Perfection in all its sublimity can be glimpsed within the womb of the Deep Forest, the Garden formed by sheer Love

We entered the tunnel and as we drew toward its center we saw we were not alone. There, in the leaves, lying perfectly still, was a fawn.

As we drew closer it did not appear to be afraid. It was watchful, but not ill at east. As we approached, it rose slowly, moved to the edge of the grove and grazed at the base of an oak. There, in the shadows, its delicacy was almost palpable.

Timid fawn, stepping into the shadows of time, drinks in the stillness, its purity, its freedom, its holiness abounding.

What a gift it would be to walk as softly as a fawn, to be as sensitive to the slightest movements of the Spirit as this fawn was to the approach of two visitors to its domain, to learn how to walk with circumspection and know how to refrain from inserting self into any place save that where the Spirit wishes it to go.

When we emerged from the tunnel into the clearing we found it was actually a small meadow carpeted by lush and fragrant grasses turned bronze by the setting sun, and almost filled by a grove of strangely beautiful dogwoods. Few things are as beautiful as a dogwood tree in spring, with its paper-thin blossoms glowing under the sun, but here, in this secluded clearing, we saw something even more lovely. The leaves of these late autumn dogwoods, back-dropped by a curtain

verdant green spires, shone every shade of rust and rose and coral under the glow of the fading sun:

Shimmering yet still, their leaves aglow from pure light, the dogwoods ignite, cast their sparks into the sky, drench the forest hills with fire

Steffan joined me and we watched the light dancing upon the limbs.

His eyes were gentleness; in them was a longing to go deeper into the waiting arms of the forest, to discover what we both felt was waiting there, in the distance, hidden in the trees.

Grass blades are holy, man, when gentled, is holier still

Then I saw that the place where we stood was the eye of a golden circle, flecked by the shadows of the leaves overhead. Three butterflies flew by us and lighted upon a dogwood branch, flickering like the flames of three candles. They engaged in what looked like a dance which somehow succeeded in expressing the meaning of all men’s dancing. They glided on shafts of light, twirled in unison, lighted upon the leaves, an instant only, before lifting again, gliding again, dancing again, to the music of some silent Instrument suspended in the sky.

They kept dancing, on and on, until their inaudible, enchanting minuet was done.

I started to speak but quickly sensed I should stay silent. This was a place where words were somehow inappropriate. In this place, this little clearing of light amidst the forest, the only language that could be comprehended was that of silence.

I recalled a story of an old woman who went to her priest one day and told him she wanted to learn how to draw closer to God. She complained that she prayed often, but could never hear from her Lord. The priest told her to go to her room, which was the place where she usually prayed, and shut the door. He said she should straighten the room and make it comfortable. Since she often knitted in this room she was to take up her knitting and put it in her lap. Then she was to sit quietly and look around and observe the room where she lived. The priest observed that since she had been praying there for all these years she probably had not noticed the place where she lived for a very long time. She should then knit quietly and allow herself to simply enjoy the peace of her room.

The old lady did not think this was very pious advice but she told him she would do as he said.

Later she came to him and announced, “It works.”

“What did you discover?” he asked.

“I did as you said,” she answered. “I arranged my room so nothing would worry me, and I sat quietly and looked about my room and noticed what a nice room it was. Then I knitted a while and I thought how nice it was to be able to sit quietly and not worry about praying or feel guilty that I was not using my time in some other way. And after a while, I noticed the silence around me was very deep and that there was a Substance within the silence. After a little while I perceived that the silence in the room was meeting the silence within me. Soon I sensed there was a Presence within this silence, at the heart of this silence, and that it was in fact He who is all stillness, all peace, all poise.”

Oh, Holy Spirit, how am I to squelch this incessant tendency within myself to bring my noise into every situation? How am I to become still enough to receive your Presence and Your Peace? It is this that I need, for only by receiving these attributes will I be made capable of hearing what it is You wish to say, of entering into the Union with You that I seek.

Grace, Lord. Grace. Give me all the grace this fragile vessel may hold so I might be led to the place where You reside, that holy Clearing within the Deep Forest where You may be found.

The Greek the word for “paradise” is “paradeisos,” which itself originated from an ancient Persian term which means a "forest" or a

"wooded park." In the New Testament the word is used several times, referring once to the place where God abides in Heaven and the other two times to the future Kingdom that God will one day set up on Earth. In the Old Testament, a similar word, the Hebrew word "pardace," is used to describe a verdant forest.

I sensed there must be, somewhere nearby, a place where we might kneel and pray. I searched the entire perimeter of the clearing but found nothing, just the grass and the dogwoods and the deer feeding under the trees. Beyond one of the trees, however, I saw a strange little pile of bark and twigs and leaves, very colorful, nestled in with all the other debris so characteristic of an undisturbed forest floor. I felt drawn to kneel and examine these humble little materials. As I did, something made me want to form a little structure out of them, a memorial of sorts, perhaps as a way to mark our visit to this place. I formed a little box out of four irregular pieces of wood that had been charred black, perhaps by some fire of long ago. Atop this I placed a roof of bark, well furrowed by time and insects, smelling sweetly of the needles in which it had been nestled. A little door was formed of bright dogwood leaves wedged into the groves in the wood. Atop the roof I placed a cross of twigs, tied in place with a few strands of grass. I set it gently upon the carpet of ferns and leaves.

And there amidst the litter of the forest, this small structure of twigs and cast-off bark became full of light and goodness. In its simplicity it became a pure and holy temple, worthy to give honor to the One Who had formed its elements and all that surrounded it. It was, in fact, a better temple than any which might have been made of marble or gold, for its humble materials gave to the Spirit the only kind of praise and honor He can accept, which is worship that is offered in spirit and in truth. When a temple contains this kind of adoration for its Maker it has fulfilled every condition and is therefore sanctified. If it does not fulfill these conditions, it is defiled, no matter how magnificent its exterior may appear.

When the Apostle Paul wrote, “I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong� (II Co 12:10), he was telling the tale of all men, for only when we are empty of self and strength and our own misguided wills are we able to receive what the Spirit wishes to pour into us through the power of His love.

It is by accepting my loneliness that I may prepare myself for communion. In my poverty I discover wealth; in my barrenness I discover the power to nurture and bless; in my emptiness I find the door to fulfillment finally opening before me.

Steffan joined me and we knelt before the little structure. I knew that, unworthy as we were, we were being given the opportunity to be sanctified in this place, to become little living temples in which worship was to be conducted. If we would consent and offer ourselves in this way, we would be empowered to accomplish His will. Such a task is impossible by any natural means but through the mystery of grace

it can be accomplished by means of the same power and love by which the universe was created.

Priests of the temple must always remain holy -high like egrets The Spirit says, “Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” It is in this stillness -the stillness that must be found in the temple of our own hearts -- that we become equipped to bless and intercede for others and become vessels for His goodness and love. We are to plant the seeds we are given. Even though they may be small, as small as those of the poppy plant, we know that all we have to do is plant them. It is up to the Spirit to see that they germinate, blossom and multiply, at His own appointed time.

God has concerned Himself with us from all eternity. He chose us to be holy and blameless, sons through His Son. This means our basic duty, then, is to live according to His Word, accepting in advance all this Word requires, whether of joy or sadness, surrendering ourselves to Him in accordance with all His demands as they are manifested to us in our daily lives. For, as St. Paul said, "Those whom He foreknew he also predestined to be conformable to the image of His Son” (Ro 8:29). God's will is that we enter into the Mystery of His Will.

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in

Christ. For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight. In love he predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will -- to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves” (Ep 1:3-6).

There was an old Monk, a peasant from Russia, who managed a workshop at a monastery on the Holy Mountain. Young people came from surrounding towns for one year, or two, to perform labor in the workshop. Most saved the money they earned so they could support their families back home or purchase a small farm or business.

One day other monks who also managed workshops asked the old Father how it was that the people who worked for him performed so well and never needed much correction or supervision. “The people who work for us do not work hard,” they told him, “and sometimes they try to cheat us.”

The old man said, “I don’t know. I can only say that each day I pray for those who come to work here. I am full of longing to see them prosper and have compassion for their struggles. I pray for Nicholas, for he has had to leave his young wife and baby and is so lonely while he waits to return to them. I pray for Joseph who is earning money so his family and aging parents will have enough to eat. I pray for them and after a while I notice that I am meeting the presence of God as I pray for their needs and I feel the love God has for young Nicholas and his wife and his baby and for Joseph and his family and his parents and I yearn again to go before God and pray for them and ask that His love for them will come down and care for them and see to their needs.

And then I go to them at the end of the day and we pray together and

I see them off as they go to their rest and then I go my way, to fulfill the other duties of the day.�

What makes one holy?

Is it power or wisdom, being good enough so that one may be chosen?

No. It is only Love.

We are Your temples, Lord, destined to hold the goodness You desire to give, this vision of joy we place upon the alter of Your Holy Hand; return it to us when the time arrives to quench the thirst of our souls.

Do you feel it too, most precious friend; do you hear His soft whisperings?

I saw now there had been an important reason for the great storm that had driven us back to the cabin. We had gone our own way, made our own plan as to how we might find the road which would lead us into the higher elevations. If we had not been forced back we would never have surrendered our own plans and been willing to wait at the cabin for Him to speak. We might have missed His plan, which called upon us to travel along a different road, at a different time. We might have missed our opportunity to be led to this Clearing in the Deep Forest, missed our chance to receive the gift the Spirit wanted to give.

There is no safer place on earth or among the stars than the Heart of the Spirit; His voice speaks to us of eternal things, the Joy of His Presence lights our Way, His arms enfold the wayward and the holy with equal love.

DAY TEN We drove back to the cabin the following morning and rested there for several days. After giving the cabin a thorough cleaning we packed our belongings into the car, took a somewhat wistful hike along Big Creek as a means of saying farewell, and headed back to our Valley home. It felt odd to have journeyed so far into the Deep Forest and now be descending back into the Valley, but we knew this was the Spirit’s will for us and we had a sense of excitement about returning. Much had changed since we had left our little home.

Our time in the Deep Forest had made it clear the Spirit’s will for us was to return to our home. Our call from this time forward was to try as best we could to encourage our neighbors in the Valley to make their own pilgrimages to the Deep Forest and there to listen to whatever the Spirit might want to say to them. We were not to do this by any coercive or forceful means but by simply being of service to them wherever we could and sharing with them how much coming into contact with the Holy Spirit had meant to us. We also were to intercede whenever we could for the Spirit to guide and direct and bring healing into the lives of our friends, family and any others whose lives we might encounter. Love was to be our watchword and our Guide.

Man climbs to the heights, transcends the trials of his life, clutches all things close.

Yet he is discontented, for nothing matters but Love

Tribulations will come but we can love in spite of them. Our frailties and shortcomings will often return to plague us, for we are only human and self-centeredness will always try to reassert itself as master of our lives, but we can always rise again and love. We can store up for ourselves an arsenal made up of love. Each day we can add to it and protect it from all who might seek to steal it from us. We can often remind ourselves that love is our goal, our function, our weapon and our joy.

One day Charles IX asked the poet LeTasse who he considered to be the happiest person on earth.

“The one who most closely resembles God,” he replied.

“Then since God is love, the happiest man on earth is he who loves the most.”

And so we can ask the Holy Spirit to show us how to become more like God and to learn how to possess His Heart of Love.

We pulled into our little driveway well past midnight, so tired that all we had strength to do was carry our things in from the car, open the windows so the crisp night air could once again flow in to refresh the house, and ready ourselves for bed. It was a balmy evening, full of late autumn fragrances, just at the cusp of winter but not so cold as to be uncomfortable. As Steffan went to shut the door to the patio he paused. I knew immediately what it was that had caught his attention.

I heard it, too. The little trill: Hooo-hooo-hooo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo.

Over and over the call of our little owl echoed through the night. He, too, had returned to his nest.

There would be cold winter months ahead but we were where we belonged, where we were called to be, within the sanctity of the present moment, in response to the Creator’s call to follow His will.

* * * * * Hidden by the tree, his eyes aglow with moonlight, the little owl sees deep into the silent dark, blinks, and understands the night. * * * * *