Consciousness, self-will, self-awareness - they are all wonderful things. But these are just perceptions of ours, mere projections of or a veneer over that which we more deeply are as living beings. Our selves, thoughts and intents are not nearly all of what we are. Nature has other tools which work within us, and she cares for us both with our sanction, and without. In her perfect wisdom, she sees fit to even forcefully shut down those so noble-deemed faculties for more than a fourth part of our continuing existences. It is then that she kidnaps our selves and holds them hostage, bound in oblivion and out of the way, while she meantime gets some important work done of her own mysterious accord on our behalf.

Oh wonderful act, wherein she grants us clarity, peace and dreams! She blesses us, rights us, soothes us, tidies us up, reconciles our experiences, heals grief, discards irrelevancies, all quite literally in spite of ourselves. She's never left us any choice in the matter. From the first day of our lives we've had to trust her, learned no option but to yield ourselves up again and again into her care, practicing dying, each time kissing our so precious procession of thoughts and plans farewell. We come to her humbly, weary, needy, unable, laying at her feet our confusions, our frustrations, our weighty loads. She accepts them gracefully, and the veil falls as she enfolds us in blinded bliss. And so for such long hours we trust her in her warm and tender embrace.

In the arms of sleep, nature's other workshop, our faith is complete. "We will wake." We believe it without question. We trust in the independent and unmonitored beating of our hearts, the overtaken rhythm of our inspirations, in the dutiful workings of every one of our living cells. Each of our members we trust to be serving our continuing being, by following the laws which authored them, carrying on the chores of life's expression. I wonder if they all in those times are quite happy to be free of the stresses and shocks which are dealt upon them, not of this gentle world, but of the worried and confused mind at the head, only then held at bay.

Woe waits for any of us who curse and doubt such a tender mother! Say we "it is not so", or "I am all in all", or "she is not for me", or "there is another greater than thou, nature"? Say we that the shadow-gods of our minds, our idealized and judging selves, be almighty in the face of this real-god and kind protector, she who has resurrected us from utter oblivion wholly and without fail, for days unnumbered? What silly foolishness the wanton self will proclaim undisciplined!

Pilgrim, hold this nature-faith ever, and make it be a part of your consciousness as well as your dreams. Curl up in the arms of your caring mother, Nature, and allow her to touch you, to cuddle you, to comfort you, to love you. She created you, she protects you, she will one day reclaim you. Meanwhile, you are a child at play under her gaze, toddling back to her at least each day to throw your pudgy little arms around her and say "pick me up and carry me for a while, that I may rest". Has she ever rejected you? How many times has she endeavored to gently comfort you as you kicked and screamed and writhed against her? How often have you said "no one cares for me" as she held your very hand, shedding tears? Oh friend, don't be so wrong, so blind, so ungrateful! Play only. Be joy, that her joy may be full, and that she'll beam with a mother's pride when you fall next time, and the last time, asleep in her loving arms.

Guy 200101141430