The Clouds Are Passing Fast

In this frail chair, with this humble talent, I’m staring out the window with a gaze upwards, faceted on the stream of clouds boldly pushing through the sky, pushing winter aside, demanding the rites of spring. The rushing blows pull the limbs of the trees steadfast to the ground, as though they step aside to allow the hushed breath of mother nature to bring a new season. Its not like a bend, but more a curtsy. The fluttering leaves seem to be nothing more than a self induced applause of life turning again as it should. A sudden blossom is seen bleeding a bright color in the mass of green.

Should you seek peace, look to the trees. They hold the records of everything we never see, the truth that all seasons come back round again, back to rebirth, back to spring. And look at those clouds up there, moving by so fast….reminding that so is life, that life moves so fast.

I seem to hold myself at my best in spring. I’m not sure what it is, but perhaps it has so much to do with what I’ve learned through this journey of mine. I’m so looking forward to this particular spring, for I claim for myself the same rebirth that mother nature blesses us with. My writing will be better, my knitting will be better. For I am witnessing the world grind in a cycle as it should. I’m allowing myself to be reborn, along with every petal screaming for air, every new creature naively searching for being.

Those clouds rushing past, those trees swaying with graceful ease, remind me to let the new season be, let the past lay where it should, to look forward, to be reborn.

Perhaps I often feel the problems I face so readily are because I’m not allowing with a graceful bow to let life happen naturally. I think that I remain in the past too often, constantly living in my own fall, buried deep by my own winter, and never allowing myself to blossom as life should in spring. Perhaps I’m too entranced with what DID happen to allow what WILL happen. And now I see the clouds leaving me behind…life is leaving me behind the more these boots are stuck in the hallows of rotting leaves and dead ground, the past.

Slowly with one hard pull of the knee upward, I’ll lift myself out, with the wind, towards the bowing limbs of trees, towards the speckled scene of zinnia and daisies, forth towards to the beginning of a new season, into new life, and into the light.

When I have trouble sleeping my mind shifts towards a scene. Humming bees swarm past uninterrupted around me. I sit at a table in the middle of a meadow populated with wildflowers. The sun is warm, the air is crisp, and I brush dandelion floats away from me. I peek over to see my little home, and turn back to the pages to remember my grand life….

I can no longer live as the man who once had life piled upon him. I must be reborn into the man that saw every touch of his hand, every soul he encountered, every experienced he gathered, every word he wrote, every bear he knit as a step forward into a new life, and not a hold on the past.

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6 comments

  1. I don’t know why we hold the past to us. It is a struggle to let go of it so that we can see and move forward. But in doing that we reclaim a part of our self.

    Thank you for sharing yourself with us.

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