The Voice of Love

Listening for the Voice of Love is a spiritual practice we all need!

It’s been interesting to get to know the Sycamore trees that stand in community where I live. They live in a grove on the banks of one of the world’s oldest rivers in the whole, entire world. It is their bark—their camouflaged attire that I stare at. It is as if they want to not be seen—blending in with the forests colors. Their trunks are soft like tender skin—easy to touch; inviting to lean into; adorned with beauty and grace.

Perhaps, they do not want me to notice them—to see them—to hear them. But, this is why I like to go and like to listen to them. It is from these very trees that I listen for the Voice of Love.

I am not a tree hugger. But, somehow and in a way I cannot explain, I feel hugged by them.

Here’s my poem, “The Voice of Love.” This is a poem about the practice of quieting the busy, mind and listening to Another Voice—a Voice I describe as the Voice of Love.

These days, when we are disturbed by what we see when we scroll; what we hear when we watch the news; and feel the aloneness of it all, I go to this place to listen. If I didn’t go there, I think I would shrivel up inside and my greening would all turn brown before my time.

I’ve learned that this very trail was used by the Cherokee as a path along the banks of the river. No doubt, they heard what I hear now—this Voice of Love. The younger versions of the Sycamore trees, green with sheltered canopies making shadows in the river where the trout frolic in the whitewater and feed on gnats and flies.

Here, it is a true cathedral to sit with myself and to sit with this great Voice.

I am so settled when I am there—that sometimes I wonder if I should live out my life there in such dabbled glory.

I hope this poem might inspire you to go out into your own cathedral on days of Spring when the Red Bud tree, the yellow Forsythia and the pinkish hue of the Cherry Tree make living stained glass windows—so real, so remarkable, so other worldly—that we have to stop; we have to listen; we simply have to be among them—be in the glory of it all.

Blessings in Springtime!

Steve