Some of those thoughts are not for public consumption. But the ones I am willing to share tend to run along the lines of woe is me; a little woe, a lot of me in the wake of all this change, including old man winter. That is not a backhanded reference to my dear husband.
Jimmy has been down and out the last few days; his throat is scratchy, his voice is gone, his resistance to this latest bug at an all-time low, a parting gift from his grandson Grant. I’m
thinking I’m not too far behind based on the constant scratchy-phlegmy-throat-clearing thing going on and the malaise creeping in like early morning fog; the sofa and throw, some hot tea and honey, and some mindless channel surfing interrupted by as much sleep as commercials is looking very attractive; much more attractive than old man winter.
Actually, I shouldn’t malign old man winter. Even though he has stripped all the trees (well, all the deciduous ones) of their colorful coats in anticipation of his official debut, I’ve grown quite fond of those bare trees; the older, the better.
Yes, I’ve been thinking, in the wake of my empty nest (again), a bare tree is a beautiful gift when you look beyond the losses.
Did you know studies indicate her urban presence alone (stark as it may be now) helps lower the stress levels and frustrations of city dwellers (and extended family) compared to those without the same arbor view? Somehow I think that tree knows her gift to mankind. It is in her nature to give - fruit, shade, support, a fresh outlook. It’s the rest of her world that doesn’t always recognize her gifts. How could they? They’re busy headed to tomorrow;
I’m not sure, but I’m not afraid either.
I rather like bare old trees without the halo of green and then gold to obscure their true worth. Their bare branches are a testament to life, to resiliency.
I can only hope to be that brave and beautiful when my branches are heavy with snow.