I climb up through the field I leave work's daily rule
That my long labor has kept clear. And come here to this restful place
Projects, plans unfulfilled Where music stirs the pool
Waylay and snatch at me like briars, And from high stations of the air
For there is no rest here Fall notes of wordless grace.
Where ceaseless effort seems to be required, And I let go my hopes and plans
Yet fails, and spirit tires That no toil can perfect.
With flesh, because failure There is no vision here but what is seen:
And weariness are sure White bloom nothing explains
In all that mortal wishing has inspired. But a mute blessedness
Exceeding all distress.
Wendell Berry, A Timbered Choir
Going to the wild, the natural, in whatever way we chose, is going to our original home. It opens up a channel for us to receive the invisible soothing potion our hearts and spirits naturally recognize. Where ever this place may be, no matter how modest, it can still draw out the toxins of in our hearts and clear away the debris that chokes our decision making.The wound will still be there--that is our work to do--but we will have received from our time spent there a bit of the ineffable balm of God to use in healing it.
