Mandala

On a Saturday in November, we went to the woods, over next to Indian Creek Nature Center, where we usually gather for Terra Divina. This practice, similar to the ancient practice of lectio divina--the contemplative reading of texts--involves reading the natural world that we are part of. We begin by observing and experiencing the landscape, then we engage with what has called our attention. We respond in prayer or meditation, and finally rest in the connection we've found with the earth. 

We've been doing this practice monthly for more than a year now, led by Stephanie, but it always brings peace, new observations, and new insights.

As we arrive and sit at an outdoor table at the edge of the prairie, we greet one another, take a deep breath, and pause from our busy, chore-and-errand-filled Saturdays.

This week, in addition to walking slowly out into the prairies and woods for our usual terra divina practice, I am leading the group in making a mandala. I invite the other participants to notice natural objects that call to them to be picked up, held, and contemplated.  I encourage them to bring any of these objects back, and place them on the plywood board I've brought for our mandala creation.

After about 35 minutes of practice, we return to our gathering place and lay our offerings on the board. 

For me, naming natural beings and objects helps me truly see them. So I briefly named the objects on the board. As I did so, a story took shape.

There were

signs of the end of the season:

• autumn leaves of brown, red, yellow
• stems of tall prairie grasses, burned black in places, from a prairie burning

signs of winter provisions for creatures who live here:

• the white oak acorn cap, deep and round, smooth inside. 
• tiny red rose hips that have been partially eaten already by birds, the white seeds inside visible
• the leaf of a greenbriar vine, whose berries are relished by birds

signs of invasive species and items not native to this area

• a few stems of Asian bittersweet--I could have brought back an armload of these
• bright yellow, perfectly spherical Carolina horsenettle (nightshade) berries, like small, yellow cherry tomatoes
• a bright red piece of plastic ("It looked like a heart to me," someone said)

signs of resilience and tenacity:

• a piece of shelf fungus from a dead log
• lichens on a dead branch

signs of future life:

• a locust tree pod
  
• three winged ash seeds
• frothy goldenrod seed heads
• an oak leaf with an oblong fuzzy gall on the back, filled with insect eggs that will overwinter and hatch in spring.

After we talked about our mandala, we talked about another type of mandalas, mandalas made of sand. In the Buddhist tradition, monks create beautiful and intricate mandalas of sand. And then, in a quiet ritual, they destroy the sand mandalas, pouring off the sand to symbolize the transitory nature of the material world. 

Although we are not Buddhists, we thought about the transitory nature of all the items on the board, of the seasons, of ourselves. Then we walked our mandala over to the edge of the prairie and gently tipped the natural items off into the tall grasses.

Although our mandala is gone--except in photos some of us took--the experience gave us something to contemplate as we prepare for wintering and our next practice of terra divina.