Stay Connected to the Path

Photo © David Whyte July 2014
Green Lane, Yorkshire

As we find ourselves in the midst of the busy second spring here in the Pacific Northwest, I can't help but feel pulled in so many directions. Some might say I thrive in this state of bustling activity—right, Dad? The garden calls, the plants demand attention, and the ever-growing to-do lists seem to multiply overnight.

I sat down to write this letter, to share my thoughts and reflections as we transition from the fullness of summer into the gentler embrace of fall. However, I find myself increasingly absorbed in doodles of design ideas for my clients. These sketches have become a fulfilling part of my work. There’s something deeply satisfying about letting my creativity flow through these designs, even as I navigate the layers of paperwork and endless tasks that accompany this busy season.

Yet, amid all this busyness, a poem by David Whyte visited me—a timely reminder to pause, breathe, and stay connected to the path I'm walking. His words encourage us to keep moving forward, soak in the last golden days of summer, and embrace the changes just around the corner.

So, as we continue to tend our gardens and prepare for the cooler days ahead, I leave you with this poem. May it inspire you to find your path among the trees—where you can feel the shade of the canopy above and the warmth of sunlight breaking through in fleeting flashes. Let the gentle interplay of light and shadow guide you, as you welcome the shifts and transformations that come with the changing seasons.

HARTSHEAD

In Hartshead I’m walking paths I’ve walked for years,
following the line of trees through wind, rain

and dark clouds moving fast from the moors. I’ve learned
to know since young the faint path through the fields

that takes you to the woods, above the valley,
leads you through hedgerows spiked with haws.

And still between those trees I see Huddersfield
cramped in the Colne, Castle Hill, the westering line

of Saddleworth Moor smouldering above. Winter’s bleak
but still there’s the green armchair of the valley sheltered

by wood and the pale green fields worked from the farm.
In snow, there’s a sharp edge to the eye’s inventory of

stonewall and hedgerow, a white silence stretched to breaking
on the still days the wind begs off from the west.

Spring’s an apple green, bladed with new grass and blackened
with cows turned out from the barns. The hawthorn’s white

surprise still shocks the eye’s forgetful winter rest. Summer’s
a still image. Shimmering heat and the streaked blur of a rabbit

out from the gorse on Hartshead lane. The road a parched wander
to liquid, waist-high green-gold barley foresting the path

to the Grey Ox Inn. Now Autumn’s the damped fire of fallen leaves
raked over by wind, the earthly crackle of bracken underfoot,

the giver of vision, the light defined by dark, the firm upward needle
of Clifton spire flared by a single ray from the clouds.

From RIVER FLOW: New and Selected Poems
© David Whyte and Many Rivers Press