Some little root of the sacred tree

Without the gravity of soft loamy earth, ragged grass and splintered stone beneath my feet I begin to loose my footing.
Without connection to nature I fragment and scatter into a thousand infinitely small shards.

I need to feel the brace of the wind chill my skin and the vastness of the sky above me as I walk Sylvie across the stubbly fields and up the hill. It reminds me of my place and makes me simple again, like the thoughtful chewing of the sheep on the pasture and the silent grace of the Sparrowhawks hovering.

My soul wading deep in woodland, among woven nests and bracken.
Here, I am at home, fully within my body and fully a part of the world around me.

"It may be that some little root of the sacred tree still lives.  Nourish it then
That it may leaf
And bloom
And fill with singing birds!"
  Black Elk