The Old Woman

In the middle of the forest, somewhere off the beaten track, hidden, there is a little hut. This is the place where the Old Woman lives.

The Old Woman is the friend of the forest. She cherishes and attends. She is always present in the shadows, part of the breath of trees perhaps, or the small heartbeats of birds. She watches from the mouths of squirrels' nests, from the eddies behind the speckled rocks in the creek, from the line between shadow and light along the stems of grasses, from the flash of the wing of a bird. Once in awhile you might catch a glimmer of her out of the corner of your eye -- but never for long, never in a way that makes you certain.

She is a weaver and a healer, gathering blossoms and seeds, combing the jackets of coyotes and rabbits for the fibers for her blankets. Her concoctions bring the fever that helps us shed outmoded beliefs, and the inner quiet that helps new understandings to grow.

In the numinous juncture where the forest of the world meets the forest of the heart, she is the guide. Look for her when the outer world has exhausted you, when your well is dry and your work no longer brings you meaning. Her hut will suddenly appear in a little clearing as day slides into evening. She will meet you there. Her fire will warm you; her meal will nourish you. She is the attendant of the releasing, the setting down. In the simple silence of her forest dwelling, if you are willing to be empty and in need of her, your wounds will be healed and insights will come. She is catalyst for transformation.

As she helps tear down and tear apart, as you weep the tears that have festered inside you, she is the terrible soul-scourging witch. Afterwards, in the feathery blanket of her nurturing arms, she is Mother and Granny.

Here is how you find her: get good and lost in the forest wilderness. Leave the trail or follow it until it disappears. Lose the words and identities that have guided your way. Loose your understandings. At the threshold of darkness her cabin will appear. No matter how fearsome she is, address her respectfully and do not be afraid to go inside.

Then, give it time. A healing season in the forest lasts until all vestiges of your old self have fallen to the ground, been covered over and snowed on, often many times. The achingly tender new growth comes through the detritus into piercing air, and it must be sheltered until it is strong enough to meet the world. Get used to not knowing, not having an address, having no answers to anybody's questions.

When the Old Woman is ready to release you, a path will find its way to her door. It will be a tiny thing, strewn with boulders and sudden cliff faces, but you will know it is meant for you, and you will take it. You will walk it one step at a time, lamenting the necessity to leave the forest even as you anticipate an undefined future. You will know by then not to form definitions too quickly, and how to listen to the quiet wisdom of your own soul.