Take your busy heart to the art museum and the
chamber of commerce
but take it also to the forest.
The song you heard singing in the leaf when you were a child
is singing still.
I am of years lived, so far, seventy-four,
and the leaf is singing still.
~Mary Oliver, from “What Can I Say,” in Swan~
The child self, Andrea, on La Finca, hears that leaf singing, still.
And she knows that you have heard it, too. She beckons, calling us to the forest, to show us the way the sun filters through the layers of green and yellow hues from the tallest treetops, slipping down branches, vines and hanging roots, catching on emerald mosses, illuminating red hearts blooming among hand-shaped leaves. She calls us to sniff the rich fragrance of Earth, of regeneration, of growing life. She yearns to put our palms on the moist, spongy wood of a fallen log.
She cocks her head, inviting you to hear again the singing leaf, calling to you to allow your child self to hear again what it remembers.