There’s something about looking up through a screen of branches and leaves, at a sky peeking through as if a shy child who’s not supposed to be seen, a glimpse of heaven if you could believe it, a gentle poke at eternity, at infinity (here it comes again…and again!) and at all the dreams you could have dreamed if you weren’t interrupted by pain and confusion and heaviness of spirit, or heaviness of lack thereof, actually?
It’s the spirit of the trees, now, isn’t it, that makes us look up? It might be that we want to reach with them, have their faith, their certainty, their hardiness, their brash branches that spread and twist and gnarl in shrugging defiance, in a complete lack of time, no sense of hurry, of yesterday, of tomorrow, just nowness of growing? Yes, it might be.
And I look out at the ocean, the sea, the water, the more-ness, the ever-ness, the always-ness, in the very same way.