Barefoot: A Return to Knowing
Day 6: The Offering
She dreamed it just before dawn. That rich, liminal hour when the veil is thinnest and the spirit speaks in symbols you don’t question. In the dream, she stood in the center of a circle made of stones. Around her, the trees swayed without wind and the sky pulsed with presence.
Something ancient and rooted stepped forward. It was a shape, a warmth. Earth-colored and steady. It didn’t speak with words. But she understood. The land had given her its embrace. Now, it was her turn.
Give something back, it said. Something made by your hands. Something born of your devotion. It doesn’t need to be perfect. It only needs to be true.
She looked down and saw her hands cupped together, full of flower petals and ash.
Her art. Her offering. Her essence.
She woke before the dream could end. Her heart thrumming, eyes wide.
She sat up slowly, the images still burning in her mind. The circle of stones. The petals and ash. The message: Give something back. Make it true.
At first, she didn’t know what that meant. What could she offer to the earth that it hadn’t already given her a thousandfold?
Then, as she stepped outside, yes - barefoot, wrapped in the hush of early morning, she heard it. A crack. A creak. Something out of place.
She followed the sound toward the edge of the pasture, beyond the winterberry bush, down a path she hadn’t taken in years.
"What would you like me to see?" she asked. "What is mine to give? What is mine to tend?"
She emerged through think brush to find a shallow stream; one she hadn’t visited in years. It trickled unevenly through brush and stone. The current was blocked, jammed with fallen branches, plastic caught beneath them, a buried soda can half-covered in mud.
She rolled up her sleeves and stepped in, not hesitating. She moved slowly, through the cold water, lifting sticks and tangled weeds, pulling away what did not belong.
As the water began to move freely again, the light shifted. Dragonflies darted low over the surface. A frog croaked once and leapt. She cupped water in her hands and whispered, “I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I see you now.”
As she returned up the path, nearing the winterberry bush she noticed an erratic, frantic movement.
A small wren with its wing caught in a strand of netting tangled in the bramble called out. As she approached, the little bird settled, but its chest heaved.
“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.” she told it as her hands moved gently, slowly, pulling back the threads that bound the wing. The bird didn’t fight; it let her do her work.
And when it was free, it looked at her, sang her a song “sister, sister, sister…” before it lifted, one beat, then an another, disappearing into the trees. “sister, sister, sister.” A song of union and gratitude.
She stood there for a long time, tears tracking her dusty cheeks.
“Yes,” she said, softly, hands at her heart. “We are kindred. In everything… Sister. Thank you for letting me know.”
In the heat of the afternoon, her bare feet led her to the clearing. It used to bloom with the most beautiful wildflowers. But now it was over run, tangled with thornvine and scrub.
She knelt and cleared away a bit of it with her hands and spoke to the ground, to the roots of what lay dormant beneath the hardened soil. “Grow. grow wild and free, and I will tend you this time.”
She walked every inch of that clearing, whispering the same prayer. When she finished, she made her way to the tree at the edge of the field, the sun was beginning to dip low. Her hands, her face, her legs, her feet, all covered with earth, but her heart, her heart was wide open.
This, she realized, is what it means to live in right relationship with the oneness of all, in the oneness of who she is meant to be. A steward to this land, and wherever her feet may go. Not to take, or even to give, but to listen, and respond, again and again.
That night, she dreamed she stood barefoot in the clearing beneath a violet sky. The stars above shimmered. All around her, the creatures of the earth gathered, deer and fox, owl and rabbit, crow and turtle. Not to test her. Not to fear her. But to witness.
The tree now stood in the center, taller than before, its branches glowing faintly in the moonlight. Its roots pulsed beneath her feet, like a heartbeat she’d forgotten was hers.
Then the fireflies danced around her in slow spirals of golden light. Moths with velvet wings brushed past her arms. Small fae-like figures shimmered just beyond her vision, not fully seen but deeply felt.
The wind shifted, warm and fragrant, and carried the song - “Sister, sister, sister…”
It came from everywhere—leaf, wing, root, breath. As if the land itself had taken up the wren’s melody and was singing it back to her in a thousand voices.
Return next Friday for Day 7 - the final day of her barefoot journey. What can you imagine this day will bring?