Would you love me if I’m faded? Would you love me when I’m not new? If I tell you I’ve gotten ugly, face faded into old age, would you love me still? I am not a play thing. I am not a thing to be tossed aside. And though I have the face of a child, I am not new. But I look new. I look young, fresh and new like a girl who has no shadows or skeletons in the closet.
I will tell you in conversations that I love nature. Seems simple enough: trees, and grass and pretty things. You think to yourself, perhaps that is why she loves nature, but no. The vanity of the exterior is not why I focus on things, or choose to hug trees as if they were past lovers that I was separated from. The vanity of the beauty of a meadow, or the color of a rose, is not why I go to nature. The beauty of who I am, lies in the tree. In the flowers, and even the birds that live amongst it. Perhaps, I am a bird in a tree. Perhaps I am.
I had a dream last night that I became a bird. I have this dream on more than one occasion, and this time I was the mighty and glorious raven, overlooking New Jersey from the Atlantic Highlands.
In looking at nature, I learn about myself. Nature. It isn’t just about the beauty of the leaves, it is in how gracefully they fall to the ground, and how peacefully the tree accepts death.
We only want to see the pretty colors. We only want to see the tree in all it’s glory, never seeing it’s death, and when we notice the death, do we actually accept it? Do we still call the tree beautiful? Do we still glorify the tree?
Notice, nature asks for no reward for it’s beauty, nor does it ask for your approval. The tree is a tree not because another says so, but because it is so, and knows it is. It knows what to do, and knows how to live and move forward in life. And it knows that death is a part of life, that gives space for more life. Without death, we cannot have birth and rebirth. Without the death of a thing, we cannot have space for newness.
So herein, there lies a choice. You have a choice. There is that deep soulful cry within the depths of who you are, that voice that lies within, and it is telling you to make a choice. The louder your cry, the clearer the choice.
I thought lasting forever with someone was the answer to my cries. I thought that perhaps I needed a knight in shining armour, but I realize that I am my own saviour. I am my own hero, and I shall be the one to save myself from the death that came in winter. In winter, the tree stays peaceful. The tree knows that this death is only temporary, and that soon, spring will come. Spring will come in all it’s glory, and we will shine again and bloom again.
Death? It’s temporary. You can make a choice to be your own saviour as the trees are, as the birds are. Choice. That’s the thing.