Of God's Sweet Loam

Loam – a favorite word of mine that you will see in many of my writings. It is in this loam, in a forest, where the life of our tree begins. Loam. What a beautiful word, chock full of meaning for being so small. What do you think of when you think of loam? Dark, soft, cool, porous, moist, rich, aroma, breathing – the living earth upon which we stand.

Take my hand my little one, walk with me into our forest, see what we may see, touch what we may touch, hear what we may hear. Smell the fragrance of our living forest. Feel the dappling rays of sun that feed the forest's growth – growth, decay, breathing, spirit – the edge of life, our embrace. We walk upon the loam where below our bodies root, stories keep, souls and spirits fly... Stars await us born of loam beneath our feet – shoulders, names forgotten, souls at rest, spirits singing, upon which we stand.

Of God's Sweent Loam

In our forest

On our knees

Embraced by those magnificent

those humble.

We are (you and me) somewhere in between.

Caressed with hymns from patient souls

Those observed

Those tucked away unseen.

Guide our hands

O mother’s love,

To part the layered leaves.

And nudge aside the loam to be

Sticks, grasses, seeds.

Move along

O Modest critters

Grubs, worms,

Larvae, beetles,

Spiders, and centipedes

Use both hands now,

Slowly scoop into our rich,

Clean

Earth.

Fingers feel their way.

Filaments.

Roots of life.

Of birth

A stick.

A stone.

And ancient bark.

A shred of someone’s home

Scraps of forest.

Primordial warmth.

Breathe deep

Of God’s sweet Loam.

Mother earth

And forest veil

Things that were

And things that are

Entrust in me

And soothe my greedy mind.

Push yourself into my soul

Let me be as one with you

With whom you breathe

With whom you lie

I’m not alone

My Mother Earth

Unbound from humankind.

In these trying days we still get out and take a walk with nature: get in the car, drive to the refuge, our favorite hike, solitude, or just the back yard with our grandsons. We can appreciate the slow, gentle pace of nature. Stop, get on your knees, part the leaves, admire nature’s work close up – “See the bugs, Baba?”

Marguerite and I took a hike a couple days ago, where the fears we now face are meaningless to the diversity of life in the forest. I noticed this stump, probably having started out as a seedling hundreds of years ago, having been witness to plague, fire and wars; deliberately being reclaimed by mother earth. As much a part of nature’s plan as it ever has been. Nurturing insects, fungi, moss, lichen, roots of new plants seeking a beginning – all doing nature’s slow, methodical, persistent bidding. Turning life to loam, a bed for the next generations.