June 2015 archive



I’ve been away on a trip to Bulgaria, to the beautiful wedding of two dear friends, so that’s why the blog has been a little quiet. I’ve seen, felt and experienced a lot, and I hope to write about it. For now I found this little entry in my draft folder. 



I sat in the forest and spoke with the rose. I saw the light between the trees, and remembered myself, the path I was threading.

I saw the sun in the still water, and felt I was never to leave myself to worry about others, but to do everything from my center, and to walk quietly, touching the earth.

Gold Tipped Forest

A painting by Frank Dicksee. The Guest List... Lord and Lady Capulet Lord and Lady Montague Paris Mercutio Benvolio Tybalt Friar Lawrence The people of VeronaI wish to walk quietly though life, through my day, with soft steps and notice what’s around me. 

Yesterday I went for a walk, and it was hard to be present, because of an anxious rush in me, demanding things, too restless to observe the sky, the wind in the grass. 

But the sun was just setting behind the mountains, casting its light onto the top of the hills, and the trees there. This is what made me stop, and I stood for a long time in that silent road, next to blue violets, and watched dark clouds drift over a gold tipped forest. 

I stood there until the light faded, and the shadows darkened, and I walked home, feeling more in my body, like I was truly touching the earth. 

Leaves of Gold

Sir Frank Dicksee |ContemplationI saw leaves falling, glimmering like gold in the sunlight, and I stayed on my little bench in the park, watching this moment of beauty, before it was gone.

Yesterday I went to the city, and I gave money to a woman begging, but it wasn’t enough, and I didn’t know what to do, and I felt lost for the rest of my time there.

She told me of her kids and her family back home, and I felt for her, how much she missed them. I gave everything I had on me, but it wasn’t enough, and I wanted to run away and avoid her for the rest of the day, so she wouldn’t ask me again. Whenever I give I feel their need, that is so great, and I feel drained, and confused. I don’t know what’s right. Many say don’t give, but I feel these people truly use the money for something good, like surgery for a family member who might go blind. I watched a documentary on it, and it hurt.

I feel bad for having so much, when others have so little. It doesn’t seem right, and I don’t know what to do. I prayed about it. On my way home it came to me, to trust in my own life, my own inner path that I feel when I stop and listen. I was also shown what stands in the way of giving.


This is a post that was lost for a while, because when I wanted to share it I couldn’t find it. But then it showed up again, and here it is. I still worry when I write about these things, and yet I want to share it. Maybe there’s something about wanting to be seen, and heard. 


The End of the Quest by Sir Frank DickseeI woke this morning with glimpses from a dream still on my mind and heart. I lied still for a moment, trying to hold onto the feeling of what it was telling me, what I had been shown. I love the language of dreams, because it goes straight to the heart. I have so many ideas, even about what the divine thinks of me, expects of me, but in dreams the message goes straight to the core, and everything crumbles, and I don’t feel judged, only loved. 


I walked in the rain, in the silence, in the green world of early June. No one was outside, not when it rains, so was alone, walking under my umbrella, listening to the music of the world around me. 

I moved along that silent dark road, and thought of things, things I’ve learned today, about how others are hurting. And I listen to this song, about being small, so small, but wanting to do something. 

(There are subtitles if you click them)

I’ve been tip toing around writing all day, but when the evening comes it’s a little easier. 

I saw a swallow today, sitting just outside my window, its black feathers glistening, and I was happy because I rarely see them up close. Yesterday they swooped by me, dancing in the last of the sunlight as I went for an evening walk, picking purple flowers by the road side. I’ve always loved swallows, there’s something poetic about them. I remember playing with my sister and a friend, pretending to be birds, and I wanted to be the swallow. 


I wanted to write more, about my sister, about my mother, my dad, memories.

I remember my mom sitting on the couch between my sister and me, smiling, while we put pretty things in her hair. I can’t have been more than five, but the memory is very clear in my mind, exactly what she looked like, and how much we loved her.  

There is a song that reminds me of my sister, that we sung in her funeral. It inspired the name of this blog, little forest flower. 

That song always moves me, especially because of the poem, about a small flower in the forest, trusting in God, even when winter comes, even knowing she will die. 

My sister was older than me by three years, and in many ways she became my protector. We played a lot together, shared many things. She was braver than me in so many ways. When she struggled I struggled also, and I tried to listen, to help, wishing I knew what to do. 


I’m writing more these days, putting it all onto paper, letting the energy finally move, flow, allowing myself to feel again. 

I’m trying to understand what happened, why I’m still not completely healed after all this time. Maybe time isn’t enough, especially when we bottle things inside. Writing seems to be my best medicine, but for a long time I just couldn’t put down the words, they didn’t come, and I was too tired. 

What comes to me now is a house of four walls, one by one crumbling until one is left standing alone. And I felt a cold wind reaching me, that I before had been sheltered from. I remember seeing my friends with their families, and feeling a warmth there that I wasn’t part of, that I longed to feel again. 

The strange thing is that at some level I feel I knew this would happen. I was terrified when my parents left for an evening out alone, thinking they wouldn’t return. I stood by the window, feeling as though a great wave was moving towards me, from beyond the mountains, and would soon swallow me. I could do nothing to stop it, and I became very fearful. At some level I think I knew I would lose my family. 

I began thinking that God did not love me. But bad things happen, even in love, and they can be turned into something beautiful. 

I’m writing this because it helps, and maybe it will help someone else too. Maybe someone feel what I feel, and I wish I had found something like this when I was  younger, going through the shelves at the local library, looking for something, books, words that could help. 


Stop and smell the roses :: Elisie Prehn

Stop and smell the roses :: Elisie Prehn

When I looked into the bag where I had kept the heavy stones, all had turned into diamonds. – Vigdis Garbarek 

I curled up in the sun, on the warm rocks, reading a book about loss, about choosing joy. 

The water had ripples of light in it that danced in the trees behind me. As the sun dipped closer to the mountain, the feeling of the place shifted, and there was a sudden perfume in the air; beautiful, sweet, like flowers. 

I’m drinking in this day, so warm, so beautiful. Welcome summer, I’m so happy you’re finally here. 

Light in the Trees

Artist - Armand Point

Artist – Armand Point

Have you seen the light in the trees?

Now moving, swaying in the wind, the mist behind them.

The darkness coming in, wild winds through leaves and branches and newly made grass. Mist and rain, and crisp clean air, the water like crystal, like liquid ice.

This is when I can see spirits, a maiden dancing through the dark storm, wild hair and naked feet, laughing between rain drops.

The Language of the World

AL RITORNO DI TEMPI PERDUTI Charles Amable Lenoir (1860–1926)

AL RITORNO DI TEMPI PERDUTI Charles Amable Lenoir (1860–1926)

A post from my draft folder, dated May 6


I stand by the open window, listening to the birds of the evening, the world painted blue.

Today I’ve been walking from one thing to the next, writing in-between. I’m not sure where all the hours went, the day already gone, slipping behind the mountains.

I wish now that I had a proper journal to write in, to gather my words, to care for them, to keep them safe and loved. A large spiral bound journal, that wraps around itself so I can write freely, unconstrained. 

Language of the World

I wonder if there is a language of the world, that the trees speak, the wind and the flowers, birds, every living thing, even people when we remember to watch and listen.

Reading Corrag makes me think of such a language, and perhaps that’s what moves through me when I stand still, watching the sky, listening to the wind in the trees, the little stream I love so much, with its silver song.

Once I looked to the mountains and thought I saw God in them, and that He was in the sky as well, in everything. Perhaps this is how he teaches us, through the natural world he created, the stars, and gathering dusk, the long silent voice of nature, whispering in the wind, in us.

Green Hills

Sometimes I feel asked to remember. What I’m not sure. The place I came from? Those that are with me when I dream, that I can never see?

Sometimes I think I can glimpse a green meadow, and sunlight, a distant memory not from this life. Green hills, a grey stormy ocean. Perhaps it is the afterlife calling, glimmering like white light, that was once home. I was there and now I’m here, and I’m asked to remember, to walk, to search, to be in love.

There are so many things we can learn and do while we are here, this short breath between realms. 

Beautiful things makes me want to write, nature, and the words of others

Knitting the wind

Jodi sky