The path is warm under her feet. Sprinkled with pine needles, rich brown dirt, and a few jagged stones, she walks on it slowly, sensing beyond the obvious—the scent of twilight, the sound of hushed air, the depth of no people. She thinks she’s being drawn deeper into the forest, to a space that’s breathed wisdom into her wandering self so many times before. But as she nears the turn that would take her there, she notices a tug. So she stops. The invitation is gentle, as soundless as a leaf floating down to touch the ground. And even though it’s unfamiliar, still, it resonates with Truth. So she listens. With every fiber of her quietest Self, she listens, hoping to connect to the silent wisdom reaching out to her.
After some time, she finds herself along the edge of the forest, her feet no longer on a path of another’s making, but on one of her own. Weeds lay bent behind her from the weight of her feet, from the push of her toes; weeds stretch out before her, beckoning her ahead. Soon she stands in the middle of a field, her body encircled with weeds. There are shades of green, too many to count, their shapes and flow as playfully varied as rides at a carnival. Wind reveals a hidden few. A butterfly lights up a chosen two. And as the colors soften into golden, so does she, at peace in her place.
She sits down. The weeds tower around her as if she’s shrunken to the size of a field mouse. She breathes in their sweet green scents. She trembles with the tender caress of the wind as if she's already one of them, with the warm encouragement of the sun, as if her feet have suddenly grown tendrils, sinking into the earth. She softens still more, and slowly, with little effort, begins to receive—the wisdom of the weeds.
* * *
You may stomp on us, cut us down as low as you think we can go, you may even try to kill us, but we are resilient and will always find a way to return to our once vibrant, life-loving selves, even if it means planting our seeds elsewhere, in soil that’s more fertile, more welcoming, more open to our gifts.
Others may call you ugly or slimy or creepy, but to us, you are warmth, you are soul, you are beautiful, and you are always welcome here.
Shallow roots in infertile ground keep us thriving longer; this way our thirst is quenched by even the smallest of drops.
Depth comes when we’re planted in rich, fertile soil.
We know the difference between fertile and infertile soil and act accordingly.
We may look happier in rich soil but we're able to find joy in living wherever we’re planted.
We innately know how to infect our surroundings with seeds of hope.
We cannot thrive on sun alone. We also need bouts of rain.
We know we aren’t alone, that we exist not just for our selves, but for one another. We help the birds, the bugs, the critters of all shapes and sizes, and they each and often, in their own time, help us. We are here for one another.
* * *
Wisdom finds her through the soundless voice of weeds. She is reminded of her resilience, of her strength even in shallow times, of her capacity to overcome any adversity, and of her natural abilities to grow and even thrive wherever she is, no matter the happenings around her.
She then reminds each one of us that we are never, by nature's design, ever alone. And especially not in a field of all-welcoming weeds.
Listen with me.
Listen to the soundless voice of nature.
Listen.
Listen to the wisdom under your feet,
brewing in your once free,
untamed soul.
And tell me,
tell me
you don't taste hope.
