Hear Myself Living

Bzzzzz, click, chick-chick, hummmmm – the sound of life in my garden.  Hummers flit in and around the burble of the fountain. “Caw-ah! Caw-ah!” Hello my handsome iridescent friend. Crow has come to watch me work. He’s come to watch me arrange small stones in spirals and waves, curious for the shiny pieces placed here and there. He’s hoping for a prize.

“I would like to spend the rest of my days in a place so silent–and working at a pace so slow–that I would be able to hear myself living.”

― Elizabeth GilbertThe Signature of All Things

Droplets of light dapple my skin as I lay my garden path. Whooshhhhh, the dapples dance as the breeze unsettles the leaves above. Silence. A butterfly pauses, wings like window panes in my church. My garden’s breath, it’s heartbeat, is that of my own. My garden is the place where I hear myself living.


She threw open the rain spattered window and pressed her head against the screen. The little creek was swollen and cascading over the rocks she’d built up, anticipating this very event . She could hear the power of the water finding it’s way over and down to its place of origin – It’s Goddess home

“Last Night The Rain Spoke To Me”

Mary Oliver

She stood there braving the chill with her bare feet and pajamas, allowing Mama’s waters to wash her spirit clean of human debris. For the briefest moment she rode the torrent, feeling free, alive and wild. In that moment she was Nature.

She was the Mystery.