January 1, 2005
Connection
The trees in our yard — Shumard oaks, river birch, black gum, walnut, hackberry, redbud, dogwood, slippery elm, and one of whose name I am unsure — largely lost their leaves before their turning this year. Nobody seems to know why. Maybe it’s because the sun rises late, barely peeking over the edge of the shed, seeming to come more under its porch roof than over it, so the trees were confused. Maybe not.
The junipers, the hollies, and Deodar, the Wonder Tree of OoN fame, have other ideas (and DNAs) about leaves and color and greenery.
I don’t spend as much time in the yard as once I did. But I listen to it, and I see it for the fathomless mystery that it is. The yard reminds me of my limits and of its own. It’s like with you, you readers, the wonder and mystery of you and our cyber connection maybe makes me fantasize. For there’s a great pleasure in knowing that you’re out there. And actually, what’s the use in writing if it’s only to one’s self? I doubt, for example, if Isaiah wrote only to himself. (I know, you knew Isaiah. You’ve worked with Isaiah. You don’t have to tell me that I’m no Isaiah.)
But now that it’s a New Year, don’t forget the five — and, of course, during the Peace, the high five.