David Whyte
Stand still. The trees ahead
And bushes beside youz
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 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 branch does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
It's no shock to learn that the man who wrote that poem, David Whyte, is a naturalist. It might invite the raising of an eyebrow that he studied marine zoology (However it may seem, it isn't all about trees.) in Wales and trained as a nature guide in the Galapagos. A pragmatic idealist, he's an Associate Fellow at Said Business School at the University of Oxford. White leads l anthropological and natural history expeditions and teaches corporations (usually the driest of entities) how to bring creativity into the workplace.
'Lost' finds its roots and branches in the wisdom and traditions of Native American elders. (That people from one country often see things in another land that its native-born do not -- and do not take wisdom from their own birthplace -- is its own verse about sight-lines, forests and trees. This is not a comment about David Whyte. It is a by-breeze of an observation, stirring leaves.)
I've not had as much wilderness training as I want. I've not had as much time sailing as I want. Time and wanting . . . Another post, maybe, if I find the right verse.
The best leaders I've had have taught that, if you are (or think you are) lost, you should stop and think. Be still. Open your senses. Heed.
Breathing and stillness come more easily to some places than in others. (It is, I noticed, impossible for me to read 'Lost' aloud without coming and returning to stillness. I begin to think that I should memorise it against the day . . . or night.)
We forget. Wrapped and rapt in the busy-ness of our lives, we forget how to breathe with the world around us, we forget (forgive the abuse of grammar) what we are part of, we forget who we are and whose children we are.
Dust and sky-dirt. We are the stuff that stars are made on. And we forget how to, forget to, neglect to live slowly. It is, on every front, a shame.
Slow can be wondrous. Indeed, how can wonder arise when one is living life on 'hurtle'? How can we see a tree or branch, let alone consider what it does?
I've had the privilege of spending time alone in the woods at Gaunt's House in Dorset. It may be possible to get lost there, although I cannot readily imagine it. It is easier to conceive of finding oneself, or of getting lost in trying to avoid finding oneself in the ancient stillness of those trees.
Once, late at night, in the Tsodilo Hills in Botswana, I mislaid my way back to camp. Circumstances led me to an act of trust; I closed my eyes and walked. I wasn't afraid. We were with a group of the San (people about whom I am proudly biased and who are not being given the respect -- or much of anything else -- they deserve). They're among the best trackers in the world, if they are not in fact the best, so if I got lost myself, they'd find me. As it happened, there was no need for tracking. I walked, eyes shut, trusting the Hills to bring me home. When I opened my eyes, there was our 22-seater bus standing tall and angular beneath the southern sky.
The Kalahari knew where I was.
'Lost' finds its roots and branches in the wisdom and traditions of Native American elders. (That people from one country often see things in another land that its native-born do not -- and do not take wisdom from their own birthplace -- is its own verse about sight-lines, forests and trees. This is not a comment about David Whyte. It is a by-breeze of an observation, stirring leaves.)
I've not had as much wilderness training as I want. I've not had as much time sailing as I want. Time and wanting . . . Another post, maybe, if I find the right verse.
The best leaders I've had have taught that, if you are (or think you are) lost, you should stop and think. Be still. Open your senses. Heed.
Breathing and stillness come more easily to some places than in others. (It is, I noticed, impossible for me to read 'Lost' aloud without coming and returning to stillness. I begin to think that I should memorise it against the day . . . or night.)
We forget. Wrapped and rapt in the busy-ness of our lives, we forget how to breathe with the world around us, we forget (forgive the abuse of grammar) what we are part of, we forget who we are and whose children we are.
Dust and sky-dirt. We are the stuff that stars are made on. And we forget how to, forget to, neglect to live slowly. It is, on every front, a shame.
Slow can be wondrous. Indeed, how can wonder arise when one is living life on 'hurtle'? How can we see a tree or branch, let alone consider what it does?
I've had the privilege of spending time alone in the woods at Gaunt's House in Dorset. It may be possible to get lost there, although I cannot readily imagine it. It is easier to conceive of finding oneself, or of getting lost in trying to avoid finding oneself in the ancient stillness of those trees.
Once, late at night, in the Tsodilo Hills in Botswana, I mislaid my way back to camp. Circumstances led me to an act of trust; I closed my eyes and walked. I wasn't afraid. We were with a group of the San (people about whom I am proudly biased and who are not being given the respect -- or much of anything else -- they deserve). They're among the best trackers in the world, if they are not in fact the best, so if I got lost myself, they'd find me. As it happened, there was no need for tracking. I walked, eyes shut, trusting the Hills to bring me home. When I opened my eyes, there was our 22-seater bus standing tall and angular beneath the southern sky.
The Kalahari knew where I was.
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