I read the following right before bed last night and my dreams were invitingly expansive and intense.
Robert Bly in “Letter to James Wright” –
Do you remember that cliff
We once imagined – hundreds of swallow holes,
And an old Chinese poem rolled up inside
Each hole! We can’t unroll them here. We have
To climb inside.
This morning I’m with words of Herman Hesse:
So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.
I’m happily home unrolling scrolls inside.