a song from beneath the trees

All beautiful and wonderful things exist to remind us our Belovedness.

I embrace the feeling of the blazing sunlight coaxing beads of sweat from my sticky skin. Gazing up, there isn’t even a tiny wisp of cloud in the sky. It is a piercing, limitless blue - if it weren’t for the tall oaks and sycamores surrounding me, I think I would be swallowed up by the formless sky, overwhelmed by the consuming atmosphere that has kept us alive for thousands of years. Every few moments, an unlikely breeze would cause the hairs on my head to whip and twirl and curl into each other, tickling my face and eyes. The Voice on the wind comes to me in those moments - just a still and quiet whisper barely stirring the surface of the waters.

“Beloved.”

All around me
overwhelming blue, a sky held up by trillions of dancing molecules, casting light and stars as a backdrop for all of creation
ancient trees swaying and tossing their branches, their leaves drinking up the sun and recycling the very air we expel, returning to us the air we must consume
a mountain lake, brimming with life - dazzling sunlight bouncing off it’s surface, a mirror that reflects back to the beholder all the beauty of the earth

And there, among it all, stand I: a privileged witness.
Marvelously alone,
invited to stand with my eyes open and say nothing,
drawn in to stand with my hands open and touch nothing.
Majesty and mystery that abide for No One.
There is no applause, and it doesn’t even ask for one.
There is no acclaim, and it doesn’t even require it.
It exists because it can do nothing else,
it is beautiful because it can be nothing else,
and it does not require my eyes, my applause, or my acclaim
for it to be Known.

And yet, in the miraculous, overcoming beauty of all that is here:
the old, friendly trees with toiling green leaves and interwining branches
lakes and waters, growing deep; their mystery unfathomable
mountains stretching high, hands reaching out to curl around the sun
and yes, even the sky, the cradle of Light itself

even here in this delicate, passing moment where time and space collide,
the most wonderful thing of all
there is still a Voice, ever whispering in a language only I can understand:

“I see and know and crafted every inch of this, but you, my darling, you are my Beloved.”