She walks with a hesitant gait, still feeble, a peach fuzz hair as soft as cat fur capping her skull. This is a precise moment, Continue reading
The Grandmother has taught me to smell, to watch, to deeply listen for healing around every curve in my path. I hear it in the bird calls pinging through the leafy canopy, and in the sub-aural voices of ancient trees. It comes as a word, or it may appear in dream fragments, or on a telephone pole or in a poem on Facebook. Healing may be the particular quality of light greenly gleaming through the leaves, or seeing my garden upside down in a drop of dew. It is the pleasure of the rooted ones, dancing when breezes shift their skirts and the birds tickle their branches. I seek that moment, like a moth seeking the light of the moon, that moment of Healing.