I can remember the first time I read those words. I was in my early twenties and I was composed entirely of the unresolved. Now, in my mid-thirties, I have glimpsed the hem of resolution. When a moment of clarity arises, I want to grasp it and hold it and in that attempt I crystallize around that passing glimpse of truth, hardening at the edges. This pertinent piece of advice from Rilke's, "Letters to a Young Poet", rings as true today as it did 15 years ago and I am reminded to breathe into the question and be patient.
Yes, I know it doesn't look like much. It was only about 5 inches in diameter and 8 feet tall. The root ball was no more than 3 feet deep. But it was a sweet red-bud tree that we planted the year Bodhi was born, his placenta was buried in it's roots and like many of the trees in our neighborhood, it died (see this post to understand why) . I can't say that I mourned its death in a tangible way, rather it produced in me a sort of unnameable melancholy. I am a woman who loves the spring. I nearly live for it. When the first signs of life emerge like a haze of hope, I drink in green with the passion of a desert crawling woman sipping at an oasis. I gorge. This year has been hard. Our neighborhood isn't leafing out in native splendor, instead the tired trees seem to begrudge the effort, only offering a tender shoot or bud occasionally. The north side of many trees appear to have given up all together, too tired after a long winter...
Comments
--Farida
Times are tough here in many ways...
Hoping they get better..
your bro