Pressure Points

These past six months have been an especially difficult time for me. I’ve been digging within myself, unearthing fears, resistance, and that big blank page of the unknown. My soul is a window, covered in in thick green slime that obscures any view to the outside. I have begun the process of sloughing of the hard layering that covers my window. It’s been slow and painful, yet here and there little spots are becoming clear, letting in tiny rays of light. I still have a long ways to go, but with each spot, things become more sure, giving way to hope.

The trees at this time of year are still barren, naked of their green leafy clothes. Yet, the leaves hide the branches, letting the observer forget the beauty present in the barky body of the tree, the sublte curvature of the branches as they reach upward while staying rooted, connected in the earth. A tree quietly endures the elements; the raging ice and fickle winds. It bends and flows with each, always stretching towards the sky, gently branching out, opening to the sun.

I want to be like the tree. It’s graceful, still, giving and taking in a natural process, but most importantly, being, enduring time and the tragedy of broken branches and scars marking its body. Though the wind blows and the ice comes, it continues growing, gently bearing the weight of nature’s rage and embracing the warmth of its sun. To be like a tree, I think is to be forgiving and humble, but always growing upwards though its roots stand stagnant on an ever shifting earth.