I hike up the mountain. The trail is narrow and alive with green. Insects buzz and bird songs fill the air. They are the choir in this wild place. Butterflies skip from flower to flower. The spider weaves. The goddess is alive here and she brings life to this place.
Here I am a dust covered worshiper in Her cathedral of trees, my boots scrap the trail, echoing the sound of my pilgrimage.
The morning sun sets the canopy aglow, more dazzling than stained glass, letting in the blessed light of life. Last night’s rain, the holy water that sanctified all that it touched.
I breath in the intense dewy petrichor, more heady than the incense in any brick and mortar church. Mushrooms, flowers, decay and growth. This place is steeped in a secret history heard in the whisper of the centuries old trees. They are the grandfathers and grandmothers that watch over us.
Jeweled thimbleberries fill the thickets offering their bounty to the wild soul, they are intertwined with lethally beautiful monkshood. The spirits here protect this place from the careless traveler.
I find my prayers answered in these magic spaces.
My life is saved in these sacred places.