alone

soft leaves, brown and silver line my steps and bed a log old, moss growing as darkness against new light green shrooms. there they emerge in layers scalloped, as if immersed in deep blue water. i stop, and wonder if I would have noticed them if I wasn’t alone, if I was distracted by chatter without real meaning or importance and at that moment, i am filled. my steps continue soft and light, alone.

THIS

bird song and water, gently flowing over muddied rocks rich with the scent of decaying leaves. peace from ease of a gentle breeze and me, alone with just my thoughts, content. clouds moving to full sun.

I’ve come to realize that being present really isn’t enough. That when I show and fully participate in life I appreciate all that is but that moment does not propel me forward. I do not take the next step. Silence is beautiful but it does not move me.

This year is going to be my THIS year. I am to show up fully and give my life some feedback, an acknowledgement. I am going to observe the sacred moment and mark it by saying THIS.

THIS is who I am. THIS is why I am here. THIS is what I want.

THIS.

Freedom

Freedom is in your awareness.

In knowing, what grows beside you as tendrils from your stem, your root. Maybe something from the past. A relationship, or wrong doing or mistreatment. They grow out of you and share your soil, your nourishment, and your light. Only when you become aware of those shoots, can you choose not to feed them. Only when you become aware of their life tangled and intermingled with your roots, can you choose to discard them.

Even then, even when you choose to slay their gnarled intrusion, even then, you still may not be aware that this life is just a small part of who you are.

Your task is to know this and grow. Because when your roots are fairly set, you can reach and grow no matter what the past brought, or what the future will bring.

I am the tree

Not just my thoughts, as leaves at the mercy of wind and rain or snow, who tumble and lift and twist but will not release from my branch. Sometimes bright green or vibrant or not at all.

Not just my desires as branches solid yet pliable and willing, lifting and sagging, bending with that wind and that rain. Sometimes breaking in dispare from a storm or the weight of snow.

Not just my body as a trunk, the years adding in rings, the bark hardening and becoming brittle. Sometimes eaten or pecked at devoured or decayed.

Not just my heart as roots wound and thick, outstretched, breaking the hardened soil and grounding me to the earth. Sometimes cut or pruned from negativity, making them turn and curl like toes grasping for the moment.

No. I am the tree, solid and tall, whole in all seasons and all weather.

Ducks in a tree

Lillies reflecting blue sky and warm breeze. A tree that bends and grows, still full of life, foliage young and healthy, reaching out over the water, horizontal and not quite ready to reach and touch the sky like the others, yet it is a resting place for those weary of the effort to continue to swim and search.

There was this tree. It was not damaged at all. It was growing out over the water with its limbs reaching up to the sky, full and healthy as if some magical part of it was below the water’s surface in triangle pose. As I got closer to it I realized that there were ducks relaxing on the trunk. It was a very strange scene yet right now, for me, very normal!

Sometimes we take a huge leap, an unimaginable gamble, because we believe in ourselves. We know that somehow our desires will be met even though our loved ones think we’re fools because there is no reason to think otherwise.

Sometimes we try something new, so new that we’re not even sure how to navigate it.

Sometimes we choose to grow out over the water instead of straight up like everyone else and still we thrive enough to offer shelter to those in need, and sometimes our leap is appreciated even though it might be seen as unconventional as ducks in a tree.

Out of the frost

chirps of cardinals, wind pushing cool air onto my cheek rosy with frost, fresh and tingling almost burning, my steps rhythmic crunching and crunching as I move forward in my desire, the desire to change the landscape of my life from frost to mud, then warm sun, golden

Out of the frost I move with conviction to change.

What kind of person

What kind of person thinks of this when someone mentions “the morning after”?

What kind of person is willing to have cold feet just so that they can break the trail?

What kind of person only takes a sip of water or removes their glove in the sunny parts because they don’t want to cool off too quickly?

What kind of person thinks that the soft glow of the sun as it filters through silver trees and blue snow is one of the most beautiful sights in winter?

Me. Grateful. Happy.