Everyone, in some small sacred sanctuary of the self, is nuts. (Leo Rosten, author, 1908-1997)
My day’s plan is to walk through the woods and take everything in without judgment, A meditative stroll, without the need to put anything into words, without thinking about work that waits at home, no thought of time. Jay and I don’t even have a camera with us. Spring has arrived, finally, and the sun is cooperative. My lightweight coat is unzipped, baseball cap on, hiking boots laced.
Nature does its part. However—I have scarcely trudged fifteen minutes before I notice how many beech trees there are along this trail. Their parchment-white leaves left from last summer break through my resolve not to capture the experience in words. Oh, I didn’t promise to stop writing. Just pause long enough to commune with nature, let it talk to me before I express an opinion.
Yeah, trees, I forgot. Your turn to talk and my turn to listen. And the wind sways the branches, teasing me, begging me to define them. The old beech leaves curl, like cocoons, without butterflies, no need to prove anything. Yet, they have withstood snow, bitter temperature, and harsh winds.
You sure jabber to yourself a lot, an old oak calls, silently of course.
I beg your pardon.
Meditation requires quieting of the mind, not analyzing, even if your conclusions create poetry. The best art mimics life; it doesn’t recreate it.
The tree hasn’t been running around, trying to find its place in creation; it already knows.
I nod and continue along the trail until my husband and I reach the lake. He takes my hand and we watch the sun play along the surface of the water.
My mind doesn’t calm easily. It asks for results, generally immediately, or at least quickly, even though I have had a lot of experience working on projects that have taken years. Not all of them have been successful in the world’s eyes. That doesn’t mean I didn’t learn. Or that I am not learning from standing still, watching water move in slow mesmerizing patterns, on an ordinary April day, as if there were nothing better to do but be aware that life can be both beautiful and good.
terrypetersen 
For those of us who write, there is no such thing as silent meditation. We hear words in the whisper of the wind and the babble of the brooks and trees rustle secrets in our ears. It’s a god thing, too, as we can draw inspiration from meditation.
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