I'm in what I've come to think of as a "tiny mood". Focused on detail these days. Is it about grief over losing a dear friend? Being in that curled up place of pain, so that all I want to do is lose myself in tiny beauty--or bury myself in work?
This is not depression, I know. And thankfully the weight comes and goes. I don't know how the widowed hold up. This is sadness. Sadness that might be something of a gift; it takes us places we don't normally go, places that bequeath to us important....values.
At the memorial service, everyone said they couldn't believe she was gone, it was inconceivable that someone with so much joie de vivre, so much energy, so much engagement with the world, could be extinguished.
And I realized, for the first time, how amazing to live one's life so fully, so richly, so heatedly, that no one can believe you've been vanquished. There's a good ambition.
It doesn't have to be this way. We can have energy, without poison. Why are we passive?
Those tiny moments of beauty serve to remind us of what a miracle of a planet we have, how important is our role as stewards of this grace. Mother Nature could care less if we are here, or not. In that way, there is nothing maternal about her. Only we care. We want to be here. So, up to us to rally--demand a clean-up!
And in such a tiny moment, I wonder, is there anything more beautiful than the bark of the sycamore?
The London Plane Tree. What a noble name. The infinite variety of color in its smooth skin. And the pucker of scars, healing.