A tree doesn’t ask, “Where do I go from here?”  It’s just a tree, doing…                 NO…   BEING a tree.  It grows from seed, receiving “Milk” from the earth, and caresses from the wind as the sun gazes into its eyes.

The clouds cry over her, washing her clean.

She slowly stretches and swells as the years swirl around her.  Her breath (the very breath of God) fills all of her being.  Other creatures receive nourishment and shelter from her branches.

And years later, I am annoyed by the remnants of her life beneath my feet as I trip over one of her branches.

I walk through a graveyard of her sisters and brothers and sit down among them.  I’m captivated by one of their dismembered arms etched beautifully by an armless and legless artist.  A tiny intricate labyrinth is hidden under the skin that falls from her bones – all paths leading to the center.

All of this, I notice, sitting perched, fighting gravity on a crooked blue bench.

I know this is life.  All of this is welcome:  even the struggle — even the death


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