The Green Leaves

Circle of Stones  ·  Station IV · Wonder

The Green Leaves

The Green Leaves hold onto a sound worth carrying, whether you're asleep or wide awake.

A loose watercolor painting of a single green sapling growing up through a crack in old stone, morning light catching the new leaves

The Green Leaves comes from a song by Nolwenn Korbell, a Breton singer-songwriter whose lyrics carry a small, gentle idea: that whether we're asleep at night or wide awake in bright daylight, something of nature's quiet sound — the rustle of green leaves — stays with us regardless.

It's a picture of continuity and renewal, the way the natural world keeps offering its presence to us whether or not we're paying close attention. There's real comfort in that — a reminder that some things simply continue, steady and unhurried, whatever state we happen to be in.

Nolwenn Korbell — Author

Nolwenn Korbell, born in 1968 in Quimper, France, is a Breton singer-songwriter and actress known for writing and performing in the Breton language.

A loose watercolor painting of flat stepping stones along a quiet garden path

Nature as a Teacher

Green leaves are a universal symbol of renewal and hope, constantly reminding us of the cycles of growth and change that shape our own lives. Just as a tree loses its leaves in the fall, only for new ones to appear again in the spring, we too go through our own seasons of loss and renewal on our spiritual journeys.

In moments of struggle, it can help to remember that just as green leaves eventually return after winter, we too can find renewal and growth after our own difficult seasons. Nature offers a steady, patient kind of teaching, if we're willing to sit with it.

A loose watercolor painting of smooth pale river stones along a garden path

Found in Santiago de Compostela

Recently, I came across this stone tucked into the meditation gardens, its Breton lyric inscribed simply into the rock. I remember sitting nearby afterward, in a hammock strung between two trees, listening to birdsong drift in and out on the breeze.

There was something in that moment — the stillness, the leaves moving overhead, the sound carrying and fading — that made the whole idea click for me in a way reading alone never quite manages. Sometimes a place has to meet a poem halfway before it really lands.

Guided Reflection

What season of loss and renewal have you moved through recently? What came back, once the difficult part had passed?

Where do you go, physically, when you need nature to teach you something you can't quite get to on your own?

What sound — birdsong, wind, rain, leaves — carries you the way it carried Angela in this hammock? When did you last actually stop to listen for it?

◊   ◊   ◊