I spread my dreams at your feet

Growing up, my dad taught me how to journal. He said it's counterproductive to stop and edit, spell-check, and revise. instead, let the writing flow, and ignore penmanship, spell-check, etc. don't let the pen stop writing. it doesn't matter if you're writing "I can't think of anything else to write." These days, I don't find myself writing often, but when I do, this helps. so, un-edited, here comes a journal entry I wrote on a recent trip to Louisiana.

I see my Father, stretching to the sky. I see him spreading his arms, that I may sit beneath them. I feel the ground underneath me, in which his roots grow. I see his symbiotic relationship with all around him. I see those that come before him, lying around me. I see his sons, my brothers, surrounding me. I see his wounds, and how he grew through them.
I place my hand on him, saying "My name is Andrew Harbuck, I am the one who comes to you, heart, head and ears full of chaos to share. I am here to tell my story." So I do. The beginnings. The mistakes. the wounds. the struggle for forgiveness of myself. the triumphs and the pride. the longings for peace.
Then I listen. I slap his trunk to listen to the echo. I see him. I see his long line. I feel small. I am a part of something. not a movement. not a network or an organization. a community. there are no words. an energy. a place. I'm a tiny part of a place. I feel this is the answer. I worry so much about my path. But I am a thread in a pattern. I must be aware of those threads around me. that I don't make the pattern. I am not Judged on my thread.
He invites me to see what he sees. The beauty of every living part. to feel the presence of those before and after me. He invites me to make shade, to share my strengths and wounds with all. Just as he does. to feel the breeze, all I have to do is stand up. That is the future. to feel the ground, all i have to do is lie down. This is those that came before me. to feel the sun, all I have to do is sit. this is all in the Now.