The Scribe in the Woods (9th century or earlier, Ireland)
A hedge of trees surrounds me, a blackbird's lay sings to me,
praise I shall not conceal.
Above my lined book the trilling of birds sings to me.
A clear-voiced cuckoo sings to me in a gray cloak
from the tops of bushes,
May the Lord save me from Judgment;
well do I write under the greenwood.
This morning I stumbled into an unexpected free hour to write, so I parked myself on my favorite bench on the outskirts of the Bishop's Garden and got to work. I feel affinity for the anonymous Irish poet who wrote well under the greenwood, for I too, find I write well when underneath a tree.
I was pondering this while listening to the robin who landed on a branch beside me when it dawned on me that maybe it's because veriditas is contagious.
That greening, life-giving energy of the Spirit that Rhineland mystic Hildegard of Bingen sang praises to is palpable on days like today. If I look long and hard enough, I swear I can see the grass growing and the periwinkle petals of the columbines unfurling.
With nature getting about its work, I somehow find it easier to do the same-- without worrying about perfectionism or fretting about outcomes, without judging myself or comparing myself to others. Hopefully this infection is one for which there is no cure.
