Verdant landscapes marching by under footsteps in a procession among hidden life. Fallen homages to the once towering pillars of timber littering the mossy landscape in a lichen encased skin. Each footfall is calculated in a reverie of respectful adoration as the receptors of understanding are opened toward the embrace of the ancient.
There is a rhythm to things if you know how to listen. When inundated with the unnatural sounds of manufactured life, the whispers of the natural can become so muted that ignoring their existence is possible. Finding the cadence requires your attention. Feeling the faint pulse beneath a skin of concrete, however difficult, is necessary at times. The veins and the arteries run deep.
Amidst manufacture the determination of the ancient is steadfast in its will to exist. As I walk among the foliage that emerges from the loam underfoot. A reverence is called for as the hints of petrichor still amass in silent waves of aroma with each reverent breath. An orchestra of life is playing out before your very eyes.
This is how I pray. The bended knee and the clasped palms, while sometimes exercised, aren’t the root of my piety. I pray by listening. I pray by allowing transportation through the veil and into the mist. We are all born from this ether, and it is as much a part of us as it is the life that stubbornly persists amidst our careless encroachment. In this we are one.
Renewing my role by treading the path of earthen detritus by my own will, I aim to reclaim my role as a worthy and devout tellurian soul. I feel the pull of the ancient un-walled church. I offer my veneration as she soothes my soul from the peaks to the valleys.
