They come up twisted and gnarled, with boles of many-fingered fibers roping in braids revolving around center and asserting themselves upward in splayed strokes, and embed flinders in the hands that dare caress. Needle leaves of unfolded desperation shoot out and sunward, leaving the shade and shelter of temperate grace behind. A mighty groan emits from the bowels of the earth as burst forth these mighty trees. They are not the tall, stately pines of their forefathers. They are not Christmas indulgences, and they are not elegant, Alpine ladies. They are the wild ones born of agitation and temper. They are distress aching in a white wash of barren fields, watered by the pinpricks of Chinese torture, and unearthed by quakes and tremors, with boughs that shudder in still air.
This is where they grow. Out of a smile on the surface of irritation, in the fertile soil atop the ashes of bitten-back words and hard feelings, in the graveyard where patience goes to slowly die.
Encased in the crystalline structures of better intentions.
I sit at the base of the behemoths and, in that space of quiet and time, I abrade the barbed edges with the fine grain sandpaper of my pen. I whisper into the silence, the words a gesture on my lips.
Grace is there, with me, in the shadows.
This piece was written in response to a prompt by the same title from Judy Reeves’ A Writer’s Book of Days, a metaphor to capture a simple moment and bigger picture better told this way, because sometimes the details aren’t nearly as important as the impression.
“Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.” ~ Allen Ginsberg
Each Thursday, we come together to celebrate living life with intention by capturing a glimmer of the bigger picture through a simple moment. Have you found yourself in such a moment lately? Share it with us!