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.