Touching the Sky

The grass at its feet is but so little to a tree  . . . the shrubs at its knees are so little to a tree . . . and though the ocean is in alignment with the spirit of the trees, it is the sky for which the trees outstretch their limbs as they sway with its breezes . . . and endure its rainy moods . . . and bow reverently under the weight of its crystal snows . . . and as they balance in this way, through movement and touch, the trees and skies exchange . . . day in and day out . . . year after year . . . the essence of their hearts. 

Migrating with the Butterflies

I hear the roar of the ocean as it pours over the tops of the trees in the butterfly grove as I listen intently to the hummingbird clicks and the scrub jay calls . . . I would walk silently to obscure my presence but that is difficult to do on a sandy path hardened by the footsteps of the many who come to stop and feel this place, a small stand of trees where the Monarch butterflies have sought winter sanctuary for centuries . . .

There are no butterflies here today . . . they are long gone northward in their four-generations a year journey . . . the first generation commencing the migration and the last generation, those with the longest lifespans, tasked with finding their way back to their winter home, one they have never seen and that only their tiny hearts ‘know’ exists. 

Last fall, I was among them as I arrived at the grove in November, something that was randomly planned yet somehow meaningfully concluded with an arrival on the day I turned sixty.   Did I feel some generational pull to return this place and to cling to the mild California winter along with them?  And have I come here seeking sanctuary . . . or regeneration . . . or both? 

I am feeling the call of the North again and I am wondering if I am part of the Monarchs’ journey too . . . with my northerly journey whose lapsed departure somehow balances the southern flow of their arrival?  I did not plan this balancing act, though something about it feels true . . .

Sometimes life is just that . . . to and fro . . . to and fro . . . to and fro . . .  in some personal ancient pattern that we inherently ‘know’ exists . . . our hearts silently pulling us along to our destinies.