Life as oracle
I am writing in a botanical garden in spring. The trees, flowers and birds are oracles, broadcasting their unique essence and message everywhere around. Shakespeare spoke of finding ‘tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.’
It seems to me that we are the same: that being an oracle is our inheritance, and also our gift back to life.
How do we give our essence? I think occasionally it wells up spontaneously, but mostly it comes over time through claiming our joy and meeting sorrow, over and over.
Here and now in the garden the rose-geraniums are floating their perfume in the sun, invisible molecules of essence moving in warm waves.
May we give ourselves too. For our own joy, but also very much for the fulfillment of the world, for it is together that we will form the improvisational orchestra of a new earth song.