You know, it’s funny:
All I have to do is go to the place
Where oaks cluster in thickly,
Shaking their rattles over my head
Like shaman trees;
Where sunlight sparkles on the surface of the lake,
And the water is a warm and welcome baptism,
Even as the wind carries the chill of fall;

Where the energetic imprint
Of thousands of prayers spoken, sung, breathed,
Danced, cooked into meals,
Stacked into piles of kindling
And braided into the long hair of grandchildren
Never quite fades, even through
The slow months between reunions;

Where our hundreds and thousands of prayers
Rise up in a swirling vortex,
Touch the outer atmosphere,
Kiss God’s cheek lightly
And fall down again on us,
A mist of blessings
Cooling the furnaces in the deepest
Pits of our being
Where crumbled, heavy, black ore is forged
Into useful steel;

All I have to do is go to the place
Where leaves are turning, seasons, planets, galaxies,
People and their hearts are all turning together
In one majestic, timeless spiral,

All I have to do is go there
With my cargo of problems that feel
So real and big and stuck
Tied tightly in this skin bag
That I carry everywhere

And throw myself
On the bosom of friendship

And throw my skin bag
On the wooden floor

And throw my heart
Into the boiling pot

And some alchemy happens
Something is cooked away
Something new appears in its place

Something that was raw
Is covered with love
And begins to heal

Something that was confused
Finds a stairway before it
And a whispered instruction:

Just climb
One step
At a time
And you will
Find the way
Opening before you.

Just go there.
Just
Go.