I'd Paint This

Sometimes - I imagine myself an oil painter. A master of color and composition and light.
Other times - I imagine myself a different other life.

And then - there are more times when I imagine nothing better.

If I were that painter - I'd paint here.
If I could be anywhere  - I'd choose this.
Only because - it's beautiful just the way it is.


Like Breathing

After this long winter - I'd forgotten about the colors of spring. The soft reds....the pale greens....the warm golden glow of a longer day's light.

It's all changing.

At first - they appeared as mere distant white spots dotting the landscape.
At second - they were the formidable sound of their wings approaching.

Have you ever heard them?

Life force. Prana. The energy of power and strength and determined focus. They take my breath away.

I thought about the trees...and the landscape...and the changing color. I thought about the swans - here today and gone yesterday.
I wondered about this morning and where this finds me.

I listened to the sound of those beating wings. Almost meditative...calming...soothing. Like breathing. Like hearing.
Like feeling once and again for the first time.

And - the answers came.

I'm somewhere in a space that is no longer...and another that is not quite there yet.
That space in between.

The budding and blossoming trees...the swans in flight...and me.


Trees Tell Stories

There's a moment between here and there that is no where. And every where.

It's no thing...and it's every thing. It's empty...and it's over-full. It arrives between the seasons of winter and fully formed spring.
It's this. It's that. It's here. It's now. It's today.

I no longer remember last week...last month...a whole entire year that's passed.
I'm sure that I've never seen this scene before...and - yet...I know - I have.

My mother believed that trees tell stories. Their roots speak to their personal histories....grounding them. Their limbs represent their many chapters....broadening their reach. Their branches speak to the future...filling them with all things possible and free.

She believed each has their own character and personality. Their environments form and shape them. The storms strengthen them. The light enlivens them. The quiet allows them space for grace.

In a few short days - it will be some thing other. There will be young color. There will be new life.
I may forget this scene...this moment...this day.
I won't ever forget that my mother believed.

Trees tell stories. Look and listen. Stop and see.