Published on August 8, 2013
Every morning I strapped Phoenix into the stroller and together we passed a stream of aluminum siding, faded lawn ornaments, and dandelion greens growing rampant in the sidewalk cracks. With the chill of an unseasonal Cleveland summer morning stinging our faces, we’d make our way to the wild woods at the end of the street.
Untamed. Where the deer population are causing a ruckus and the trees still hold court like they did when I was in fifth grade waiting for the playground monitor to look the other way.
Once deep enough in, where the sound of cars and lawn mowers are just a hum, my shoulders began to melt down my back, my heart space became buoyant, and my eye sight sharpened.
Growing up, this was my kingdom. I knew the paths both paved and unpaved.
It was here that I first learned of alignment and french kissing and the benefits of maple sap.
It was here that I always felt safe.
I didn’t learn about God in the walls of that Catholic School. To me, that God felt made up–like a character from a Grimm’s Fairy Tale.
I learned about God while kneeling in a creek.
But this is not about God. This is about space.
And how those woods feel like a womb.
Dark, damp, and throbbing.
Infested with life.
The root of my truth
In which I’ve been seeking.
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