Peace of Nature:

When I was much younger, I wasn’t a night owl like I am now.  I went to bed at a reasonable time and rose before the sun while everyone else slumbered on, snug in blankets and enclosed in sweet dreams of the coming day.  There was a very special place I used to wander to as the rest of the world awoke and prepared for church, since Sundays were my days to greet the morn.  Resting alone on a grassy crest of the bluff behind my house was a large, smoky-grey stone weathered by time, wind and rain.  The Rock of Ages.  It was carpeted by moss and nestled beneath the Mother Tree, a short and long-limbed tree that carefully hid this secluded place from the rest of life.

            This was the Sacred Grove.  In the hour just prior to dawn when the earth is gently wrapped by a light haze in the arms of eternity and the air holds the slightly muggy, yet clean and refreshing scent like that following a spring rain.  On the tiny leaves of blossoms unfurling to bask in the pale glow of the rising sun and on the blades of soft grass dew glistens and the caressing breath of wind tumbles through the hanging branches kissed with vibrant green leaves heavy with sleep.  Morning birds awaken to gather breakfast for their young and cheerily greet the day with exuberant songs from the depths of their hearts.

            Small woodland creatures scamper about the soggy turf, searching for things I know I could never find if I tried.  The wind is only a whisper, the disfiguring sounds of the road below lost in the ethereal heaven above the natural world.  The yips and barks of the neighbor dogs are silenced as well so only the calming, musical overtures of nature can be heard.  There is a slight chill in the air, carried by the gentle wind to signify that spring is only just being born of winter, the baby life reaching to the heavens still prey to the bitter frosts that only fade with the approach of summer.  Even this minor annoyance is only trivial to the full effect of the daybreak and my too-big sweatshirt ensures that at least most of the bite will be lost.  I know that my family will still be asleep, catching up on the lost hours of the weekend spent gaily celebrating family, friends and good fortune, but the me, simply being atop this knoll is celebration enough of life and nature.

            The chill of the stone breaks under the dawn as only the moon and brightest of stars remain to shine in the lightening sky, dark giving way to light.  From my vantage point above my neighborhood I can clearly see the early morning fog rising off the placid surface of the lake to slowly dissipate as the pastel pinks, blues, violets and gold in the sky shimmer away and the fiery orb which is our sun breaks over the hills on the horizon, penciling in the distance in shades of black and grey while giving the here and now the rich colors of the rainbow and thriving life.  And under the protective shade of the Mother Tree, a web of spider’s silk still retains the dewdrops of predawn.

            There are certain times of the day that some people feel should be lived alone and there are certain places in the world where the magical quality is lost unless the witness is solitary in the forgotten world within a world.  Gardens of Eden exist everywhere in the world and can be viewed by any and all if one just looks hard enough.  Like stumbling through the wardrobe to arrive in the glorious, yet dangerous world of Narnia, these paradises can be discovered quite by accident.  At the tender age of only six, I had already unearthed my inner world, visible to the naked eye by any who might climb the bluff and come across it, but not all can see the beauty apparent to me.

            I discovered this the hard way.

            On one such innocent spring morning, I meandered up the bluff, my heart full and light with the inexplicable gaiety of youth.  Even before I reached the Sacred Grove, I knew something was amiss.  Like a sixth sense warning me ahead of time, dread coiled like a snake in my gut and my heart leapt into my throat …I couldn’t hear the birdsong and the air was still and stagnant.  I paused before I reached the side trail leading to the crest and wrestled momentarily with the sickening fear that clutched my mind before overpowering the irrational feeling and continuing against the best wishes of my conscious.

            The land was monstrously scarred, the Rock of Ages – usually so strong and secure lay forlornly alone.  There were signs of her passage, crumpled leaves strewn about on the raw earth, twigs broken off from her mighty limbs and a hideous mar running down the hill where you could see she was dragged, without care and without pity.  The Mother Tree was gone.  Not uprooted, although it appeared at first as though whoever committed this atrocity had been aiming to capture her that way, no, someone had taken a brutal axe to her tough hide and cut her life away, leaving only a sad little stump.  I stood dumbfounded; transfixed by the horror and in my mind I could hear the cruel blows of the blade striking her side and waves of nausea rushed over me.  How could anyone do this?  How could anyone violate the Sacred Grove and have the nerve to destroy the protective life that was the very root of the magic within this place?  How could I wreak my revenge?

            With all my heart and soul, I longed to hurt the person or persons who had done this …hurt them the way I was hurting.  Rationality took over once it felt that the fury had run it’s course and heartlessly pointed out that I had no way of knowing who had chopped her down.  The trail left by the wrongdoers most likely led to the road or the main trail that cut through the bluff and I knew that I stood no chance of finding the perpetrators.  My little body shook as bitter tears coursed down my face and I left the grassy knoll, to return only on the anniversary of her death.  The memories inscribed within my heart the only place I could now turn for her gentle guidance and presence when the sun rose.  After this, though, I never woke before the sunrise.