We have had unusually warm weather this winter. Warm and humid.
Normally, I would look out the window to see snow. But this winter?
The humid, foggy mornings break out into jubilation every evening. And my desk faces the western sky. That picture, in fact, was taken from my bedroom window.
And the evenings! Just cool enough to stroll underneath the dim, hazy nighttime lamps.
Two nights ago, I was walking back to my car after practicing my trumpet, under a canopy of branches. The knobby sycamores spread their branches, meshing with each other in the night like rows of grandfathers embracing. Even in the humidity, the night was silent, still.
I had turned off my headphones long ago to savor the cool, refreshing loneliness of communion with creation. I remembered that I too am part of this world, not mind only, nor spirit, but a living thing-- in many ways like the trees alongside me.
What kind of life is in trees? I wondered, that would make them live so long, and be so steady, their roots deep, their hearts coursing with sweet sap even in the darkest, coldest wintertime?
Trees, it seems, live forever.
I look out of my window and see the oaks, the tuliptrees, and even a blackberry. The fingers of a dogwood stretch elegantly to the sky below my window. Those trees were my great friends growing up, Loriodendron Tulipefera, my tent, my hiding place to read, and explore, and imagine. That burl on my desk was once my favorite seat. See that hemlock? They say I climbed it when I was four.
And now, 17 years later, I remember those good friends with fond memories.
But I also see trees that are no longer there. For trees, like us, must someday die as well.
So I thank the Creator for the blessings of the life around me, for the slow, persistent energy and growth of all living things, thanking Him also for the life inside me, and remembering that I too will pass away and not be forgotten.