“…where the trees have leaves of prisms and break the light in colors that no one knows the names of.” The Byrds
Personal life, what remains of its tiresome memories, hopes and fears, is an empty warehouse where a fair amount of commerce once took place. Even rats don’t like to live here anymore, so little food being left for them to eat.
Across the street in a vacant lot where years ago someone threw an apple core, a tree has come up, ready now to bloom. In its upper branches a sparrow builds her nest.
The fact of existence is one thing. Being aware of it, another. Claiming ownership of existence we could never create or bend to our own imagined will, is a very distant third. When existence, awareness and surrender come together, there is a blossoming of joy like morning birdsong.