I dreamt of daffodil bulbs sprouting, their young leaves rising from the earth like graceful green ghosts…and then that I was standing in a valley taking photos of mist rolling over the green hills…and still I dreamt of a woman with sea foam white hair teaching me how to listen to the whispering trees in the forest.
When I woke up, my mind still drifting in between dreamland and reality, I remember thinking…
…there are angels in nature walking amongst the trees and whispering the secret language of sacred things.
And also that…
…mosses are a whole unknown world, in fact, a whole Universe of wisdom. They say that ‘rolling stones don’t gather moss.’ So to drink in great worlds of wisdom we must be still just like ancient rocks and boulders who rest in peaceful presence for eons and then allow the insights that rise from the Universe and from the quiet stirring within us so grow like moss on the moist edges of our consciousness.
Meanwhile, the autumn sun was rising somewhere behind the sea of grey clouds without me there to see it, and the garden was waking up wet from the early morning drizzle. It’s been a wetter autumn than usual and when I saw the rain-soaked oxalis leaves cropping up between the herbs it made me think of faeries and stories I should be writing for my children, if they ever come.
A morning like this can only lead to more enchantment unfolding as the day grows old. For that I am grateful.