I believe in quiet moments. Moments that have no purpose; moments that simply are.
As a child, I was a tree climber. Give me a tree and up it I would be, soon to spend hours lounging in the branches. But it was the first tree I ever climbed, a tall pine in my front yard, that I came back to time and time again. In the light of the mornings, I would sit in her lowermost branches, and I would watch her. Her roots were buried in the wet soil, secure and strong; a foundation that slowly climbed up and out of the earth to the trunk, which gleamed all different shades in the sun. That trunk, I thought, held all the colors of the world in the midst of its knots and sinews and twists. Some mornings, it was mahogany, others green-tinted, or red-purple, or gold, or silver, or yellow, or wet, dark brown as the soil it rose up from. Her trunk spread out into branches, branches to needles, needles to dewdrops. And then the sun trickled down to the tips of those drops, instilling the light of day into her being.
From my shaded perch, I watched her, watched her through all the years of my childhood. And slowly, she and I both grew up. I grew, and I ceased to be a child, and she grew, and grew, and grew. Never ceasing at all.
So sometimes when the world is too much and life spins around my head so fast I can’t keep up, I skip down my driveway to the pine that still stands, roots buried, needles glistening, and I sit. Just sit. Sit and breathe and think and be. And so the moments that have no purpose at all become the moments that keep me going, the moments when I live for no one and nothing but myself.
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