Visiting

When I think of the place to start writing, the same image always comes to mind. It's a place without a name, a place that perhaps, I've never actually seen. For whatever reason, my heart holds on to that place and desperately craves it, needs to feel the essence of myself there, of the world, of the earth. It's also in this place that I find myself feeling God in the most raw and natural way. I'm not sure how this place came to be, whether it is something I simply made up due to the long walks I used to take in the woods or because it was inspired by something spiritual inside me. Maybe I'll never know. Yet again, the image comes to my mind of yellow toned grass, thick like wheat but soft like the new green of spring. It glides beneath my finger tips and hums to the hymn of the wind, of the poetry that comes only from the murmuring of nature. Nothing has made me feel more inspired and certain of the presence of God than the spirituality of nature. It speaks to me at a level that I cannot describe and in a way that I'm not sure can be felt by others. It's my special place, forged from the quiet tinkering of God's fingers and of the words that I can't seem to make spoken. It's a quiet place where I feel my soul swell and my lips never speak a sound. But in this place, I am able to create like the Father did before me and as He continues to do so.

It occurred to me today that I should visit this place more.