Blood cells travel up and down my internal highways, not in a rush, but confidently flowing as one. I breathe in, receiving the invisible gift of life; I breathe out, letting go of the past, the parts of me I am no more. Always giving up the old to have the new.

DSC_0749Rebirth. Can you feel it, the end of winter? The light is brighter, the trees are not so rigid, and people are stopping to notice the statues in the park. In uncontainable joy, I want to push out winter. Instead, I’ll patiently wait on the tips of my branches and just beneath the surface of the earth. If I didn’t value winter’s gray, frozen, and chapped lip days, its tough and gritty work to strengthen my core and root systems, I wouldn’t know the full weight of my joy when I burst forth in buds and birdsong. Anticipation. I do the work in the secret place—the closet on my knees, catching the rain, and listening in the dark—so that the seeds I have planted will reproduce for generations, thousands upon thousands getting caught by the breeze to find new homes, and an abundance of fruit for the hands of those who pick from my branches.

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