Our times, for all the unseeing blur of their speed, require patience, at the heart of it all.
Patience as a means, like a receptive channel, for Love to flow into, and through.
If any one particular wisdom seems to echo through these days, it is what New Hampshire poet Bob Moore conveys here.
This Guest Post is a Guest Poem, like a strong, sustaining infusion of light, for times when winds blow cold. A heart’s reminder of how our relations, the trees, teach us how to wait, to leave room for what the mystery in creation will quietly enter, and unfailingly fill with all that new beginnings need.
by Bob Moore
The trees stood still. They knew enough to wait.
They knew that every season wasn’t great
for blooming, so they slowed down, and they dreamed
of what the light would feel like when it streamed
for hours in the warmth of a summer day.
When asked if they felt cold, they wouldn’t say.
But given the chance, they wore a coat of snow,
and waited for the length of days to grow.
They watched the squirrels and chipmunks fetch their meals,
but never spoke a word of how it feels
to while away the time and not complain,
or worry if the forest would sustain
their young, or fret about the need for room.
Instead, they held out for a chance to bloom.
Reading Bob’s words, I’m reminded of those of W.B. Yeats:
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
Waiting for our inner and outer senses.