Wait til the mud settles

This is another of the images from last weekend's retreat; one of those mystical experiences, when you know to click the shutter but have no idea what you captured until later. I call her my leaf goddess; she seems both beckoning and tender, that aspect of spirit that reaches out to me every time I remember to reach out to spirit.

This morning I read in Lao-Tzu:

Do you have the patience to wait
til your mud settles and the water is clear?


and I thought of this image. Because that's what happens, if I am intentional about sitting and being present. It's like walking in the lagoon to look at the sand dollars: as long as I keep walking, it stirs the mud and I can't see them. But if I stop, eventually the mud settles and they lie there at my feet, hundreds of them. It is what my husband would call a two-part algorithm, I think. You have to be still, and you have to be open, to notice, to be aware of what rises to the surface and what lies beneath.

And if that brings tears, let them come, replenish the water, magnify the vision; it's all good. Breathe, let them fall, watch the splash, let them go. Let the coolness of the hidden springs within wash through and nourish your soul, and see the reflection of the goddess within, watching tenderly as you mourn.