Every walk offers a conversation with the world. When we pause long enough to listen, even the smallest object can reveal something that we have misplaced within ourselves.  Nature, all of nature, draws us closer to the maker. We are opened by her generosity, and by her harshness.

Since I started this ramble down a dirt road, writing the line between heaven and earth, little things keep lighting up in my mind like fireflies. I will grab them and put them in a jar, then let them go again before morning. It seems the same light that flickers in memory also appears in the outer world, waiting to be recognized.

In my thirties, I taught an NLP workshop to a group up in Keystone, SD. It was a fairly standard NLP intro, but it was a good group, and they were willing to look deeply in. On impulse the second afternoon, I told them we would stop for a while and I invited each person to go alone, to take a silent walk in the woods or along the road. The air that day was clear, golden with dust.

“While you are out there,” I said, “look for something, an object, a plant, anything that speaks to you, that tells you something about some part of yourself.”

Then I let them go, with the plan to gather in a circle later that evening.

It was a beautiful fall day in the Black Hills. Many of us who live here believe that the Black Hills are both a sacred site to the Lakota and a power point. A friend once told me that a layer of quartz crystal underlays the hills and makes this place a strong receiver and transmitter of energy. I believe that.

When our circle formed that evening, everyone was clutching objects or plants, large and small, that they had found on their walk. I began a talking circle, though I did not know that term at the time. There was a hush in the room, the kind that falls when something unseen has entered. Each person held their found selves tenderly, almost reverently, as they spoke.

One woman had a small bouquet of tiny white flowers, like baby’s breath. She said they represented the tender, fragile girl inside who could so easily be crushed. A man held up a chrome hubcap he had found in a ditch and talked about his warrior’s soul. Another man, a forester, had a wood chip the size of a thumb tip. It had teeth marks where a beaver had chewed the wood. He turned the chip over in his hand as though it might reveal itself if he looked long enough. He could not articulate what it represented in his soul, but as he tried to speak, his throat tightened and tears filled his eyes. He was moved by what he had found.

That circle reinforced for me the belief that nature, all of nature, draws us closer to the maker. We are opened by her generosity, and by her harshness, we are shaped. Later, I used this same approach as a writing prompt in one of my classes at OLC. When I first gave the assignment, the students looked at me like I was nuts, as if I had asked them to talk to trees. In a way, I had.

Some of the stories that emerged from that writing prompt were so incredibly beautiful that I wept as I read them. Here is the full prompt if you would like to give it a try. 

Go outside and take a long walk. Let yourself be open to everything you see, hear, and feel. Trust that something out there, a small object, an animal, even a piece of trash, has something to say to you. When you find it, pick up the object if possible or hold the impression until you return to your notebook. Then write freely for at least twenty minutes, without editing or thinking too much. Let the story, the memory, or the message reveal itself.

What you find may be small, but it might be a piece of yourself you did not know was waiting to be found. If you do this fun challenge, let me know what you found. 

This post is 

Originally from “Writing the Line Between Heaven and Earth” (unpublished)

Thursday, April 22, 2004