In this 107-acre nature preserve, a young deer stares me down forty paces away. Watersnakes mate in slithering groups of two or three. Chipmunks and rabbits scurry hither and yon. Tiny bright yellow warblers cavort in the flowering trees and tall reeds among cardinals and red-winged blackbirds. A great blue heron glides along the surface of the central pond, its vast wings never touching the water inches below.
My best spot to meditate happens to be surrounded by lively green poison ivy. Daily I am tempted to bring clandestine clippers and do away with this possible eventual barrier to my sanctuary.
But there is one rule here. No interfering: no killing anything, no feeding anything. Nature, unimpeded, amidst clipped suburban lawns.
Thus, my meditation this morning: what metaphor to me, this poison ivy? Is it poisonous thoughts that plague my mind, of ‘not enough’ , ‘what if’ and ‘what ifn't’. The poisonous leaves do not harm me as long as I don’t touch them. If I don’t fondle the thoughts that inevitably grow where wild things live, where imagination runs wild and free, I can dwell among the ravishing quiet and bird song, where death floats in the water creating a new scuplture of sky, inversing the laws of gravity, as I sit with earth and sky both above and below, as they truly are.
Welcome to the Celery Fields.
p.s. these photos are not mine, as I go there empty-handed. All photos taken at Celery Fields, except Ivy. In order, credits: animals from Phil Lombardi, ivy from Tim McDowell, last Kevin Watson. For more click here.
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