Eden on a plate ~ A prayer before meals

We ventured into the woods last month, to stay awhile and it was most serene. Life crawled to the pace of a lazy moonrise over mountains, swift sunsets into the ocean, a glittering array of stars some evenings, the veil of mist and fog on others .

The leaves always have the best view of the mist

The house we lived in, employed a well and septic system, so the owners requested that we not flush any bad poetry or cell phones down the toilet 😁 These instructions duly printed and posted next to the flush tank came as a relief actually, because we were there with dear friends and the days were simply marked in the passage of beauty. All words dissipated as the sun split like atoms on a glittering lake every morning. Mushrooms signaled purpose in mossy undergrowth as we strode through the woods after lazy watermelon breakfasts,  each day unfolded like a breeze through glades happy in wildflowers,  whispering to the woods in meditative repose.

Watermelon Sunrise

There was a lull of the senses coursing through ripples of moments, the kind where time ceased to be a commodity to be bartered, divided or sold. It began to take on a shape of its own. It could simply stretch like bread dough and we would fold into it in the manner of soft herbs while the gluten held the minutes together in the translucence of a doughy windowpane to other definitive realms.

Fungal intentions !

We barbecued away the hours, tested our palate, worked our limbs on winding trails and at one point, I felt my neural impulse had merged with the landscape, when you know the plant brain coursing through the tap root is deeply aware of your presence  as you step gingerly over knotted, entwined surface roots and you can feel the collective body heave a sigh in the fluttering, delightful shimmer of laughing leaves as happy thoughts curl up in smoke through a forest canopy.

We soon established a mealtime tradition of praying and one evening I had the privilege of doing so, except that it was difficult. I am no inverted believer and with  no one to direct my prayers to, I did manage in the end, something that was along the lines of the poem below, made up of facets of our day.

Thunder Hole, Maine; a calm sea earlier that day.
Saying Grace

The day roped in happiness
like tidal waters
streaked with seaweed,
joyous to be afloat again.
The rocky inlet imbued
a stony demeanour, while
calmly contemplating
the resounding consonants
of a cavern within.
I could hear it swish syllables
as it lapped in the waves,
and I now channel
in gratitude,
that exuberant overflow,
and this,
which needs no rationale.
As we sit at a table,
enjoying a meal
cobbled together
from the sweet of corn,
the crunch of lettuce,
the ocean yield
of Piscean gleam,
it has begun to look
like Eden on a plate,
and I allow myself
to feel touched.
I am touched.
Gratitude is a verb
when I feel thankful
for being able to share
in the sacrificial generosity
of plants and animals.
Do we feel blessed?
We must,
for what could be sweeter
than that
we haven't been refused
- a share
of the Universal largesse.
From this bounty,
we take as we may,
so we simply survive
to another day.
It is wonderful to be alive
and I am grateful.
We are grateful.
Seaweed along a sandy beach on the Eastern Seaboard

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