Showing posts from September, 2021

Waking Trees

There is something in the wave of a branch that comes from a gentle breeze that makes one feel it does so because it is alive.              Indeed, it must be alive! Not in the sense that everything that grows lives—taking in food of some sort and reaching further and further for the heavens. No, not that sense. But in the sense that somehow, when a tree waves in a particular way, it reveals some truth about its mental state: that it has a conscience! Or, to put it in a far simpler manner: that the tree is waving its limb in a concerted effort to offer greeting.             I saw a tree wave just like that only yesterday. And perhaps it only feels that the tree has a conscious mind because I want it to with such grave desperation.             Or perhaps, just perhaps, it feels this way because long ago, all of the trees were consciously alive, waving and greeting and passing on the slow wisdom of their incremental growth. And even now, it may be that they only need the smallest o

The Memory of Flight

 When you looked cleverly amongst the broken places between the trees at night, you saw the stars. And among them, a particular star, the one that danced and twinkled and said, 'I'm here. Wish on me.'     Which, of course, you did. For what else was there to do with such a kind offer?     You wished, quite naturally, that you could fly. And up, up, up you went into the sky, soaring about on air as though you had wings. And, who knows, perhaps you did? For there was no one to witness the fulfillment of your wish. And indeed it felt as though air coursed through gleaming, slick feathers, pushing you up and and around, higher and lower, through spinning whirlwinds and about stark drafts.      You came down from your wish elated with the knowledge that you had flown.     But all the wind that flew you about had moved the trees in such a way that you could no longer see the wishing star.     In all your long life, you never again found it.     But you never forgot that one night

The Small Gust and the Big Wind

 The small gust found its way around the bushes and the shrubs, looking for the right way to rustle them. It was a mischievous little breeze, bent on whirring and ruffling and tossing bits and pieces of the plans just a bit this way and just a bit that.      It was not the gusts fault that it struck in the right manner, in the proper way, such that its small movement produced a bigger one, and then one even larger, again and again until the gust became a wind and the wind a whirlwind of strength and vigor and tremendous girth. One by one the bushes and the shrubs felt their roots tear up and their leaves scatter, until, by the time the wind had lost its vastness, there was little left of any hint of foliage.      It was never the intention of the small impish breeze to play havoc as it did. Indeed, it felt great remorse as much as shock that so small a thing could wreak so much havoc.     And so the little gust brought the rain and then the sun until the bushes and shrubs were themselv

Where the Silver Linings Are...

There's a hole in a cloud where, if one is just careful enough, one can peak through and see all the silver linings there ever were. It is an awe-filled thing to see, a place where all the dashed hopes and frizzled dreams come to find the small shining thread that wraps about their wounds and shapes them into something made of magic.     One could spend a lifetime looking through this hole, marveling at all the wonders made of the strange scrapes and bruises of life.     But then, one would miss one's own life time.     And so, perhaps it is best to catch nothing more than a glimpse of silver from time to time while looking up at the clouds. Then one will not miss the silver wrappings of one's own crushed dreams and damaged hopes — for there is always enough silver for every lifetime.

The Boy's Flowers

When the boy came through the streets with his little bundles of flowers, the world looked upon him rather harshly. Perhaps it is because summer flowers are a hard sell in summertime, for they are expected. Or perhaps it was because the little boy looked a bit ragged, which often bodes harsh stares. But there was one kind old woman who took pity on the child, and offered to buy his flowers.     But where the old woman was kind, she — and all the others who had mistaken this little boy's aims for that of monetary gain — was mistaken. For he had never intended to sell his flowers. He had only wanted to offer them as a gift to any who wanted them.     And as the old woman was the only one to indicate her wants, well: she got the lot of them.