good atlas

The quality of listening determines the quality of speaking.

—

The weather is good today. Cold, crisp, and a little dewy. The blue hour stretches on to noon. Angus, the charcoal cat and Oliver the sausage dog is asleep amongst the folds on our unmade bed. All is well.

I am thinking about certain moments. Moments in the world where I stand unmoored by time. Moments where I am just being in the very same space as the trees or mountains or skies around me. No words, no speaking. Just listening.

I have befriended some trees over the years. On my hikes in Gasing, I whisper a hello to the same two trees along my path. Every single time. I don’t know how I got this close to them. Maybe they said hi to me first and I merely responded. Just like that old pine tree in a park in USJ 2. I make it a point to sit with it and watch its branches and leaves sway to the wind. Our way of communicating, perhaps.

Then there’s that tree in SS19. I haven’t visited them in a while. But they have been my companion during the pandemic, when I was living alone. Cluttered in my own head, I’d drive down to the park, walk up to the tree and place my hand on on their moss-covered trunk.

In those moments, I found the truthfulness of my own relationship with the world.

I’d like to share something from my journal– written when I was in cold, crisp, dewy Cameron Highlands early this year. Deep in a forest, in a tree house.

Filled with an unspoken sense of calm and clarity, I struggled to write anything but these three lines:

1. The forest is happy, I am happy. It is sufficient to just be.
2. Delight in us and we delight in you.
3. Just at the break of dawn, the forest comes alive in celebration, announcing its place in the world. In the same way, we stir. How do I join in the jubilee of being alive?

💡 Think back to moments in your life when you “just knew” something. What was the quality and texture of that knowing? How can we cultivate more of that in our lives?

### Poem things

Invitation by Mary Oliver

Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy

and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles

for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air

as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude –
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing

just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,

do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.