I haven't written anything personal for some time. It is not for want of deep diving into the well of living, rather it is from a constant water-treading in emotional exhaustion. Sometimes the weight of human expectation and belief (my own at the forefront) weighs me down with lead-like determination and I find myself afraid of the next breath...the next "not knowing", afraid that tomorrow will inevitably find itself echoing the sharp notes of today. These are the dark nights. I surface for a long deep breath, drawn unhurriedly in a clear near-autumn eve, and ask, "What if we can't f*#k it up?". What if life just is and there isn't a right way or a wrong way except our thinking makes it so. What if it...all of it...isn't such a big deal. Would the stars still turn round the heavens if I tumbled ass over teakettle into my own stupidity. Would autumn still give way to winter. Of course it would. What if I stood up, tall, and stretched from my long crouching, took a deep breath and bellowed deep from the bottom of my belly. What if I roared. Would the sky shudder. |
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...
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