Evergreen

There once was a forest

Always green

whatever the weather

It’s foliage could be seen

Fierce unrelenting

To it’s nature be true

Green was the colour

Its one choice of hue

There’s something about it

That’s calls into me

Come to your true nature

And then you’ll be free

There’s something about

The forest as it breathes

A deep stillness in me

And I just receive

There once was a forest that swayed and creaked in the wind. Tipped with snow. Streaked with frost, yet never losing itself, always green.

A tiny human approached the forest. Just a girl in comparison to the size and age of the trees, yet inside she was boundless.

She entered, feet crunching in the snow, breath billowing in swirls and curls. She was alive. She was here.

The ancient boughs around her, so strong, unrelenting yet easeful. She believed the deep stillness she felt inside herself here was because the trees only knew to be themselves.

Not one was fractured or splintered in it’s identity. All were fully and wholy themselves. She thought it no coincidence that wholy sounds the same as holy. We are all holy when we remember our essence. We are all holy inside, underneath it all. When she got still here, with the trees, it was not hard to feel that. This was her cathedral, breathing and alive.

One day the girl felt drawn in a new direction by the forest. If a forest could whisper she felt “here, come this way, here, here..” and she followed. Anticipation mounting with every breath. A gift awaited her. She could feel it in her bones and being. The part of her that was one with the forest. Skin was an illusion of separation.

A clearing started to appear, and impossibly.. A cabin. A beautiful dwelling for humans such as herself. She stood, rooted, silenced. The urging had stopped. This was her gift. On swirling frosty breath she whispered “thank you. I love you. I love it. It’s perfect”. Hands to her heart, to embrace the swelling in her chest. Gratitude can be physical.

As she pressed on the door, the smell of cake and fresh coffee greeted her. The smell of home. Did someone live here? She felt more nervous now and decided to knock. No answer came so she gently, slowly creaked the door open and she couldn’t believe what awaited her. She’d expected it to be empty or sparse but this cabin was filled but simple. It was so cosy and a complete luxury, meeting all of her basic needs.

There was a range, should she decide to cook or make tea; a table facing a fireplace and a window, for her to write and gaze. She did most of her writing on her phone on a blog and she never did lone trips without it in case she got lost or injured. There were plates, cups, a bed, clean and made in the corner. Blankets and an easy chair. Candles dotted around and an oil lamp. There was no running water but plenty of bottles of water and some food supplies, including what looked like freshly baked bread and fruitcake. It really was surreal. Should she be here? Had the forest got it wrong? Was she trespassing?

Then she spotted it. A note. It was propped against the kettle. A simple folded piece of paper. As she unfolded it she marvelled at the mystery of it all. It felt like the never ending story, a story within a story that comes to life with each word uttered.

The note simply read ‘Welcome traveller. If you found this cabin I’m assuming you’re a friend of the forest and was guided here, as was I once upon a time. I have no idea who built it or why, I only know that it has been well loved and many have passed it’s threshold. I’ve read many a note and found many a supply. Apparently no one has ever met each other. We always arrive on different days. We called it the retreat. It seems to be meant for solace and solitude. The one request made is that you leave a note like this. You’ll find paper and a pen by the bed. Should you visit again, leave some fresh supplies, either for your next visit or someone else’s. Some even bring fresh flowers. I baked the fruitcake, it’s delicious. Tea is in the cupboard as its best served with tea. Signed your fellow traveller.

She was at a complete loss for words. Both a smile and a single tear graced her face. Gratitude again, threatening to burst her banks. This felt as holy as the forest. Pure, innocent, real.

She started the fire, made a tea and sat to the table with a slice of cake that was as delicious as promised. The silence inside matched the silence outside. It was the type of silence that holds you and fills you, rather than strips you bare. She felt held. Held and known somehow.

It is said a butterflies wing can change the course of existence with just one flap. Interconnection. She felt like that wing. Gentle. Delicate. Fragile yet whole. Holy.

As she gazed at the fire, stories seemed to flood her. She imagined realms and dimensions that most cannot see or feel. She’d paint their images with words, weave them into stories so souls could inhabit them and find rest. She’d shamanically journeyed many a time and felt stars sing and trees speak. She’d met the spirit of foxes and owls and mice. She’d longed to read novels like this, that touched upon the heart of the magic she knew lived in everything, but such books were rare and hard to find. Maybe that book was within her, waiting to be written. More than anything she could feel the spirit of the evergreen trees drawing her. They had a medicine for her and she needed to allow it to rise to her consciousness. She found herself wanting to draw them, touch them, photograph them and surround herself with their essence and smell. More than anything they felt like stillness, silence and strength.