I am in the vortex of swirling blue, broken by umber arcs of the branches of an Oak. The last warm wind of November twitters a lone leaf, torqued by it's own drying, stubbornly clinging to its thin twig extension. The tessellations of the air around us engulf the curvature of my right arm and palm that rests gently against his trunk. He stands alone, in a minor clearing of tall grass and Milkweed. The raucous chickadees in the stand of saplings to the left has been silenced by my lumbering approach. As I lean in the afternoon, I hear a loud flutter and my awareness attaches to the red flare of a male Cardinal that lands at the edge of the stand.
I turn my awareness back to the Oak and the energy that flows through the conduit of my arm. Tenderly, each individual finger presses into the furrows of the tree skin. Inhaling I relax my gaze, I feel the small swirls of energy in my forehead, heart, and navel gently shift and come into alignment with this great being; with his presence. This is how we speak, palm to bark.
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