Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Where The Wild Things Cry

I talked to the trees in Central Park today. They talked back. We mused and laughed, we bore our branches to each other and then we cried. -

I went for a run and found myself in a corner of the gardens at 106th and 5th Ave. The sun was out, the breeze was crisp and sweat was beginning to form on my brow; a little too warm for the scarf I wore. I worked and heaved, jumped and pushed. I put my body through rigor and I felt health surge. I breathed in deeply. Then attempted 10 more push ups.

About halfway through my date with flex and lunge, I noticed that no one was around. Not. One. Soul. I could only hear birds and the wind in the leaf-stripped branches whining. I was thankful, so thankful and I tried to forget every sore and pain, every ache in my heart and each failure’s whisper in that moment.

I tried, but I wasn’t successful. Even still, I’m thankful for the moment of trying.

But then…the trees. They drew me in. They were bare and I could sense they were somewhat embarrassed, but had learned to make peace with their annual overexposure. They were brilliant in their silence and I made my way to them feeling uncanny kinship. I truly felt God was in the trees talking to me; one of His creatures to the next. They said things like, “We’re beautiful, even out of season,” and “The real work is happening inside.”

They said simple things like, ‘be yourself’ and ‘growing is silent.’ “Be still and know that He is God.” And then surprisingly, ‘Be wild.’

I held a branch and began to cry. The sweat and tears combined to make a salty mixture I wiped from my face. Oh, bare branches, we have matching marrow! Our sap is the same and I could swear you have a soul.

Oh God above, You remind me how to weather a season and for that I’m thankful. And in my weakness I’m thankful the branches are bare but once a year.

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