A Ritual on Christmas Eve

 

 

 

Trees

 

I think that I shall never see

A poem as lovely as a tree.

 

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

 

A tree that looks at God all day.

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

 

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

 

Poems are made by fools like me.

But only God can make a tree.

 

Joyce Kilmer

 

 

There is a woman who lives in my heart, her presence always felt.  I haven't visited her in years, in fact, but I know just where she lives.  Her sweet bungalow always open to travelers, sits in the middle of a woodland by a pond. 

 

She walks amongst these trees throughout the seasons and can be easily found at the foot of almost any tree.  She paints, writes, sketches, sings and praises with little critters and deer seem to gather especially close by.   There is a deer path one can follow which always leads to and from the pond, but my friend knows her way and follows only her heart.

 

I have had the privilege of visiting her in every season each offering abundance in pleasure, art and nature's gifts.  She gathers kindred spirits from all walks of life.  Conversations wander late into the night through depths of the unknown.  Hearts are filled with wisdom as spirit calls us farther onto our paths with passion and desire. 

 

On this Christmas Eve  her ritual will be alone as usual, walking in the woods with her basket filled with small tokens of  gifts to be placed at the base of  every tree.  With her are  little packets of seeds she has made for the birds and nuts for the squirrels.   Her loving heart extends to all that lives seen and unseen in the presence of the trees. 

 

As she wanders day light slips from the sky.   She lights her candle in time to catch her angelic reflection at the edge of the water in the pond.  God and Goddess hear her songs as her voice is filled with joy to be living among the sprites and trees.  She never feels alone nor fears the dark.  Her heart and mind are filled with bliss, no time for worry or strife.

 

The sound of her drum can be heard as the moon and stars light the path  back home.  Tonight she will not paint in her studio, nor will she compose in her den.  She will sip hot chocolate by the fireplace and lose herself into the dancing flames.  This her ritual, has always been.

 

My friend can  shape ship into mother, maiden and crone.  She is all that has ever been and offers all that could possibly be visulalized or seen.  She lives in the present when she needs to be found, but otherwise she is out there in the trees.

 

Rebecca is her given name and we see each other only in occasional dreams.  It is doubtful that our paths will ever actually cross again, but we will recognize each other even if unseen. In spirit I am with her, especially for her ritual on Christmas Eve.