Moving Slowly

This morning I practiced my t'ai chi chih moving meditation in front of the patio door. S-l-o-w-l-y. I automatically timed my movements to the drifting, swirling, soft descent of snowflakes. My own words to my students echoed back to me: "Notice how your practice location affects the feel and pace of your practice. For example, when you practice along Lake Superior's shore, your speed will vary depending upon the time of day, weather, wind, wave action, and the sound of the waves against the shore. Why? Because we are all part of an ocean of energy that flows around and through us and we naturally attune ourselves to the rhythm that surrounds us."

This is one of the reasons why my own rhythms have slowed while living here in the North Woods. Divorced from the noise, activity, and stimulation of busy freeways, crowded malls, and frantic workplaces, I can quiet myself down into the rhythm of earth and sky, wind and water. Here I live among acres of trees and miles of land that rest quietly beneath a protective mantle of pure white. During the winter months I emulate the bears and curl up within my protective shelter as I peer out at each new day's layering of lake-effect snow. Oh, the beauty!

After feeding animals and rekindling the wood fire this morning, I read from "Earth Prayers."

The mountains, I become part of it ...
The herbs, the fir tree, I become part of it.
The morning mists, the clouds, the gathering
waters,
I become part of it.
The wilderness, the dew drops, the
pollen ...
I become part of it.
NAVAJO CHANT

Here, under the forest canopy, I feel the oneness of all life and I celebrate that unity. And so ...

The snow, fallen and still falling,
I become part of it.