In the northern California Redwoods nearly 7 years ago, we rented an unremarkable cabin. There was a small bathroom with a shower, a main room with a T.V. and bed, a kitchen in white that I loved. In the mornings, I woke up before Mike, made coffee and wrote in a notebook. I was either married or not depending on the day.
At home I have been aching for that small white kitchen and the morning quiet, or the tents and lakes and trees of campgrounds. Spring has finally brought out her party gowns and I am in her thrall.
Yesterday I was angry, bitter, feeling cruel in the prospect of writing. One of the first things I read online was this and it tainted the day.
It shouldn’t have, that was petty.
There is a space within us that holds the pocket that hides the seed that lifts its chin and becomes a dream. I am not dreaming anymore because I’m feeling the more I call writing a dream the less presence of mind I give it.
A seed does not sit on the ground thinking, I’m a seed. I’m a seed. One of these days I’m going to decide to grow. There’s no time for that. It just drinks its water, takes in the sun, and shoots up into the canopy.
Have you seen a Redwood tree?
Its strength is galvanizing.