There comes a time for clearing space,
for starting over,
for tearing out the rubble or the weeds,
and getting down to the bare earth.
There comes a time to weep in the dirt,
to lie prone in the agony of time spent away.
There has been all this time spent rushing around,
running from the quiet place, from the still,
the sacred, the place of deep knowing.
There is a returning, but not a jumping in.
There is a shudder, there is a weight,
there is grief and reconciling. The joy
comes slowly like mist rising on water.
Until, curling up and rolling over, eyes upward,
there is revelation in the branches of trees
overhead. There is wisdom in these woods.
It is time to begin again.
photo from here
