Sometimes when I wake in the morning, the first feeling I have is like a stone in my stomach. Sometimes the weeks gather in questions, stones gathering together as they rumble through the mountains of my body. Sometimes I lose the rhythm of the Deep Song.
And then, in loneliness, despairing the depravity of the world and the deep craters in me, I find myself sitting at a picnic table under a great, wide elm as my daughter plays just there, at the playground. Suddenly, I am present, drawn back into the green. I stretch my neck back, draw my eyes into the thin, serrated leaves. Light plays through them, layer upon layer of leaves, creating every shade of brightness.
A small breeze, a chill of cloud. A deep sigh, and I hear the beat. I rise, rest my head on the elm, and hear the drumming of the world, the beauty of the things that grow.
I am one of them.