Beautiful. "Sometimes, it is what is broken that offers us the permission to feel noticed in our brokenness. What blooms can often feel unattainable, and what breaks can feel more like who we are. That’s why fragility, to me, is a more peaceful concept than immortality. The split tree — struck once by lightning, burned and scarred by fire, ravaged by disease — has something to say about wholeness, having once been whole and having now the opportunity to reimagine what wholeness means. You’d stop, wouldn’t you, to touch its bark? To watch the light shadow itself through the frayed branches?"
This reminded me of a walk I took with my son last summer. It was a difficult time. We were breaking up the weight of many things with a walk. We felt no need to talk; we were taking in our surroundings. I took him on one of my usual routes with the dog, who had died a few months before, down a shaded street that ended in a pocket park with massive trees. Coming home, we passed a house that was quite overgrown. Not only was the yard wild, but vines nearly covered the house. Rather than seeing neglect, he commented, "It's being reclaimed." I have held onto that observation.
Stunning. I am in sweet tears at the close of your writing today. Thank you for all the insights, questions and contradictions. The dark horse of words I want to day dream on today are "page of our soul — or whatever you want to call". Safe travels to Death Valley.
Beautiful. "Sometimes, it is what is broken that offers us the permission to feel noticed in our brokenness. What blooms can often feel unattainable, and what breaks can feel more like who we are. That’s why fragility, to me, is a more peaceful concept than immortality. The split tree — struck once by lightning, burned and scarred by fire, ravaged by disease — has something to say about wholeness, having once been whole and having now the opportunity to reimagine what wholeness means. You’d stop, wouldn’t you, to touch its bark? To watch the light shadow itself through the frayed branches?"
This reminded me of a walk I took with my son last summer. It was a difficult time. We were breaking up the weight of many things with a walk. We felt no need to talk; we were taking in our surroundings. I took him on one of my usual routes with the dog, who had died a few months before, down a shaded street that ended in a pocket park with massive trees. Coming home, we passed a house that was quite overgrown. Not only was the yard wild, but vines nearly covered the house. Rather than seeing neglect, he commented, "It's being reclaimed." I have held onto that observation.
Stunning. I am in sweet tears at the close of your writing today. Thank you for all the insights, questions and contradictions. The dark horse of words I want to day dream on today are "page of our soul — or whatever you want to call". Safe travels to Death Valley.