Why I come here

As for mortals, their days are like grass; they flourish like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more. But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting (Psalm 103:15-17)

Too soon they will be gone. Wild daisies, four feet tall, cover the forest floor beneath the canopy of old oaks 70 feet tall and more.

Filtered light casts rays amid shadows on the forest floor, as the woodchip trail leads deeper into whatever mystery the woods hold for me this day.

Star-bright yellow blossoms celebrate in dappled light, seizing the day, as if they know cooling temperatures signal the end of their praise to the mystery of their Maker.

I come here to see them, already planning other hikes on other trails where I might take in their brethren, shimmering whites and blues across forest glens where my heart leads me less often than is good for my soul. Soon they, too, will pass away.

But I am here now and being here now is what most matters. I come to see and hear and feel and love the love awakened within, for which I praise the One who sings in forest flowers.

Strewn across the forest floor, the golden profusion accompanies my steps, stretching around the next bend and the next and the next, green and gilt melding together in a wash of impressionist delight.

Each blossom a saint of God, praising the Love who called them out of nothingness to light my way home into the Love for which I long.

White oaks and basswoods soar above like giants of holy faith. Spreading their arms, sheltering the life of all that flowers, fades and passes into yesterday, they strain toward the Mystery who has haunted my heart since I was a boy, wondering: what is this ache within me?

Out here, I know. It is not for the flowers and trees, but for the love they awaken that is not of my own making, but which is the other self I am, the self beyond ego and striving, the self who wants only to love, to know love, to be love, to be one with the utterly Nameless One who is Love.

The mystery of our lives is ‘Christ in you, the hope of glory,’ St. Paul (or one of his followers) once wrote. Out here, I know this Christ not as someone to believe in but as the Love beyond myself who is pleased to inhabit my mortal flesh, moving me to want nothing but more of the same.

So, I continue on, my boots scuffing the woodchip trail, a blessed pilgrimage away from all that clicks and beeps and shouts and flickers from digital screens.

Each step is a sacrament, a taste of the Everlasting Love who sings to me in the flowers, shelters me under the oaks and unveils the divine face in the merciful compassion of Jesus, my brother, who bids me to come here and abide with him.