Teachers of a land named Annadel

If where there is form, there is nature,

then, what is the nature of form?

Impermanence.

Today, I granted myself the wise gift of spending all morning and afternoon in waking, walking prayer. From the soft whispers of sun cresting over the ranges to the shadows of her setting; the gift of a deep and long-overdue emersion into one of my favorite places, of which I haven’t visited in many moons. Longer than I would like to admit. I wonder why… What are we even doing when we’re not listening to the wild hearts call?

This place, where no matter when I go or where I look or what I touch, no matter the path I take or what my level of participation is, everything seems to be gazing and reaching back at me; longing to be seen, to speak, to teach. To tell their stories to anyone who might be willing to slow down for a moment and listen.

The beings of the land are always doing that, I believe. Longing to be seen in the reflection of ourselves. Longing to be loved in the extension of our own loving awareness.

Such a gift to witness this ecology, not so much a thing but a process. And to not just witness but directly participate in the ever-unfolding spectacle of chance and change that are these lands, what is known to many as Annadel State Park, but truly has many names. Or no name at all.

Curious it is, the practice of reducing thousands of lives, expressions, experiences and emergent properties into a word that is a name that we call a place. Oh yes, going to Annadel… like its some’thing’ you can go to, and not an entire realm of its own accord that one actually gets taken into.

So I am taken in, and given the honor of witnessing this landscape and its myriad of beings in its peak state of late October desiccation, before it is quenched once again into a different shade of vibrancy. I am taken in, and told story by:

The diverse crustose lichens that have persisted through 100 degree heat swells and months of no moisture. They teach me resilience.

The gopher snake that sits upon hot iron rich soils; soaking up the UV radiation to warm its cold-blooded bones. They teach me stillness.

The burrowing spider holes… portals to another realm, transporting me deep into the rhizosphere. They teach me depth.

The mighty, towering, ancient oaks that support more lives than one could even imagine. They teach me nurturing.

The mahogany, curving, lichenized manzanitas dancing and twisting and turning as if it was just for the fun of it. They teach me movement.

The clay rich dust covering the stones ancient faces. They teach me about the beauty in aging.

The turkey feathers glistening in iridescent whispers. They teach me geometry.

The dormant turkey tails, that are anything but dormant as they softly wither away via burrows in their flesh; surrendering their bodies to mycovorous microorganisms. They teach me that death is an act of service.

The beating heart of this land, pulsating omnipresently in everything.

Im listening.

Thank you, great teachers.