Who teaches whom?
I leave my dear ones in Poland a bit sad but with sweet memories having had another rich experience…having learned so much, I wonder who is the teacher… Surely it is the Divine teaching us all—oh but how she cloaks her work…
The plan was that I come to teach the Life Impressions method;did my best; well received it was. But once again, who teaches? Each time I return to Poland I find the ‘students,’ the country, have teachings for me.
Northern Poland, the lake country…
The sun rises at 4:00 a.m., drawing my body into the lake by 5:00. Followed by a walk/meditation/rest, contemplating class at the civilized hour of 11:00. Learning settles very deep within rested happy souls taking in lessons dropped in my mind in the early hours by ‘The Teacher’ of us all… After seeking healing memories—moving and touching to stir consciousness—self-corrections abound—lead by inner wisdom.
Break for afternoon nourishment…new potatoes grown by the lake grace our plates…
Fresh food, harvested moments before from rich soil, prepared with skill and love, nourishes body and mind. Farmers next door teach us about land care as they sweat looking over the fence. We eat as the hawk surveys her territory overhead. A Stork freshly arriving from Africa walks on water as we watch.
‘The Teacher’ in Her animal form waits for us; class is always in session here held in natural world—do we see, do we learn?
Wild grasses herbs and flowers prove the lands health, no strange chemical amendments, only hard working farmers and cattle link nutrients to the earth.
We begin afternoon class as clouds roll in, seeking our healing memories with movement and touch. A farming family outside the window, grandma included, hurry to get the hay in before the storm. Working so hard, one wonders what life impressions they make…generations have passed in the same manner…
Our class continues; thoughts of good will sent forth from within for their task as dark clouds gather over the hill behind. One student sheds tears of release—a memory found—as drops begin on distant the fields. Our hope for the workers of the land reach out through the window; grandma shouts in a language foreign to my ear—many a ‘z’ color the sounds.
Nearing the end of our hands-on lesson, winds carry forth the storm. We are drawn to the window as our lessons close, mentally urging pitchforks onward. One line of curled hay remains as dark billowing clouds rise over the ridge.
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