Walking is a bridge
on getting from here to there
I lived in Minnesota for the month of July. I was housesitting on 95 acres of rural land robust with forest, prairie, river, and sky. I arrived on the Capricorn Full Moon and left the day after the Aquarius Full Moon.
On my first walk in the forest, I met Mother Tree. I stopped immediately when I saw her, reached out to touch her thick bark, admired her curves and rounded nubs of branching arms. She spoke to me: Eyes are ears are hands are prayers. I placed my palms upon her trunk and bowed my forehead to rest on the grooves of her skin. I felt her rivers of consciousness flow into me. She told me what to do: Walk this same path along the river each morning. This is your prayer and offering.
For 31 days, I followed the path along the edge of Spirit River, from the farmhouse through Pine Grove Playground (where I walked the 8 and chanted the song of Button Snail Farm), around the wildflower fields (mowed into haybales by mid-month), through tufts of ferns, over narrow (and sometimes wet) passages, under faerie arches next to elemental dwellings, alongside tree friends giggling with news (Hello, Alligator Elephant, Mingle, Siblings, Lovers, Auntie, Grandfather, Maybe Beavers. Thank you), to sit on a small bench nested at the “end” of the trail and look out to marvel at The Tree Who Knows How to Reach Across and pause in awe of this river and all she knows.
This river who was different each day I walked with her—shapeshifting speed, height, texture, forms of foam, geometry of churn, music and whispers. Alongside her creatures, too—raccoons with sweeping tails, startled turkeys, families of deer, eagles and cranes and more birds than I have names.
All along, Mother Tree guided me. I gave her offerings on my way in and sat with her on my way out (as I walked the path both ways). In-and-out collapsed. As did here-and-there, then-and-now, soil-and-sky. We did not say goodbye. She knew my “last” walk on the path and received my flowers and hum. I knew she’d stay with me. She’s here now. I feel her river in my pulse.
As humans, we’re inclined to visualize our concepts. We think of a bridge and see a structure that spans from one side to the other side. We like the image of this, its metaphor and meanings, its hopeful possibilities.
As we work to bridge into a more beautiful world for our children and communities, we imagine moving from here to there, getting out of this mess and building something better. We strive to create structures to travel us to the other side of the rainbow.
It’s hard to see the frames that tell the stories of our dreaming.
It’s even harder to let go of frames that once were helpful (or that we’ve built our lives around).
What if the only bridge we need is inside us—a bridge that lives in the patterns of our attention, the pulse of our waters, and the prayers of our hum?
Perhaps:
Our work is not to build a bridge in order to walk to the other side.
Our walking is the bridge.
To walk with curiosity and awe, devotion and listening, as love.
To walk exactly where we are—with the trees and birds and beings, whether here is a forest, park, city street, dream, poem, or song.
The imprint of any bridge lives in the frequency of our hearts as we walk (and create and teach and lead and join with others) in the ordinary moments of our days.
How we attune is what we create. This is the only true bridge.
When I returned to Pittsburgh, I followed my ordinary path to the cemetery near my house to visit the angel who I often sit beneath. As I approached, a young groundhog led me to turn and visit the tree across from the angel first. I said hello to the tree and saw two round eyes (a mirror to my own surprise) on a toad sitting in the heart of the tree. A wise, mother toad.
I sang to her and gave her a flower. I bowed in awe and delight.
We watched each other. The groundhog watched me. I felt a warm embrace from Mother Tree and heard the vibration of her hum.
We are closer than we think to a more beautiful world.
Hum… hum… hum…
*
as delight, Melissa
One of the many faerie arches in the forest along the river. Thank you, faeries. Thank you, elves. Thank you, elemental spirits. Thank you, Light.
Thank you, Mother Tree.
Family of deer crossing Spirit River.
Sitting spot bench. The tree in the upper left and closest to the river is The Tree Who Knows How to Reach Across.
Scout, the curious, playful, fast-as-the-wind dog who walked with me each day, doesn’t need a reminder to attune to the joy and magic of the everything.
Sunrise on day 31.
Hello, wise mother toad.
