First day of a new year. It comes all by itself and with colours and hopes and something a bit desperate. Could, can this new year bring us something better than the last one? I get it but I am not a believer in the dissing of the past because the past makes us stronger, more resilient and, hopefully more open, more vulnerable and less defensive. In my long and observant life I have learned that fighting anything is not always a show of strength beyond the moment. Things happen to us and sometimes awful things. Defence is key inside the moments but wait a minute. Once we have defended, what then? Will we treasure the grudge like a Precious? When just one someone who has had the very worst of all experiences refuses to do that, and I hear about it, I am on my knees in awe and respect. This is how I want to live out my life, catching the light from their refusal to grudge. Not that I have a clue about their pain, their loss. No experience, no clue. However, their spirit leads me even if I have no idea who they are, have no details, no context. It doesn’t matter. This is how we learn from each other, from the whole team, all those others out there who live their lives as best they can. If, that is, we are outside of ourselves and looking.
The trees are loud this day and so is the tidal rip. Both are roaring, no, not both because I forgot the 3. 3 is the wind, that capricious jester just passing through much like my granddaughters this afternoon who managed to change the whole dynamics of the house layout with their hobby horses. Last night the jester laughed all night, whicking things, noising branches, louding the peace of my home and had me shaking my head in almost time, although it is a real artist who can know the percussive phrasing of a gusting wind. As I walked inside the hug of the woods, I heard the groans and the squeaks, the clicks and the moans. I heard the song in the pine needles, so high above me as to flip my eyeballs and the rest of me backwards as I used to be able to do about 100 years ago, right down the ground.
I notice puddles, a passing horse, a big foot print. I watch cones fall, hear them hit the wood floor, wonder what impact that has. Does that tiny sound echo through the ground? Do these massive 100 year old trees hear and does it begin a conversation? I see the stand water ripple up like it has its day, only this day and only when the jester barrels through. Where is he going, I ask? They shrug, the stand water, the puddles, the trees. We don’t know, they tell me. But it is so much fun when he comes.
May we live this way. Open, ready even if we have no frickin clue what we are ready for.