Time and again I return to the wisdom of John O’Donohue, an Irish poet/philosopher I first discovered when buried deep in fear and confusion amidst the gradual crumbling of my exiled life in the United States.
The wonder of a garden
Trusting the first warmth of spring
Until its black infinity of cells
Becomes charged with dream;
Then the silent, slow nurture
Of the seed’s self, coaxing it
To trust the act of death.
Last month, with little warning, Chris bought an air ticket to Greece.
An Irish philosopher poet accompanied me to Livingstone. When I left America I packed him away in my heart and in my mind. He boarded the plane with me in Virginia and together we took off into the wild.