Some mornings, when I'm scheduled to teach and I've kinda sorta got nothing, I randomly pick up a book of poems from the ridiculously overstuffed bookshelves to flip through.
I don't believe (mostly) in oracles or runes or throwing bones, although I think if one is creative enough that one can find some sort of meaningful interpretation in any of those things, or in the shapes of the clouds, or a wish on a dandelion.
Today's selection was simply perfect.
They usually are.
I think that's what happens when we learn how to look.
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
In this tradition you could never be found because you've never actually been lost at all.
There is only recognition and the lack of it.