Death happens, loss happens, and I suddenly remember how fragile our existence here is. How temporary. How fleeting.
How terribly beautiful and painful it can be.
I arrive at this awareness, and I notice myself buckling. Part of me wants to stay with the realness of it. Part of me feels like I am about to crumble into a million pieces.
And so I hone my attention in on what is here with me. I see the smooth, cool moss on the tree trunk. I see the rugged bark with its deep rivets of patterning. It is steady and unmoving, regardless of the emotions that are flying on the wind.
I hear the creak of branches overhead, and I wonder what they are trying to tell me. The pine needles hold their silence.
I follow their lead.
The wind picks up and hair is thrown in all directions across my face, over my eyes, into my mouth. I turn to face the wind to clear my face. The symbolism is not lost on me.
It is coming in strong gusts now. What starts as a low hum rises high, squealing, and falls. It rises again in a whoosh and whirls around in blustery assertion.
Unbridled wind in my face. I remain tethered to the ground.
The wind seems to bring to life what I cannot put into words.
Loss, brutality, love, desperation, joy.
It is all part of the same package.
I am standing under a steadfast pine tree. My mind is quiet. There is nothing to figure out.
“If you could choose a superpower,” my son asks at dinner, “which would you choose, invisibility or the ability to fly?”
“Flying,” I tell him, “the wind is a wise teacher.”
How terribly beautiful and painful it can be.
I arrive at this awareness, and I notice myself buckling. Part of me wants to stay with the realness of it. Part of me feels like I am about to crumble into a million pieces.
And so I hone my attention in on what is here with me. I see the smooth, cool moss on the tree trunk. I see the rugged bark with its deep rivets of patterning. It is steady and unmoving, regardless of the emotions that are flying on the wind.
I hear the creak of branches overhead, and I wonder what they are trying to tell me. The pine needles hold their silence.
I follow their lead.
The wind picks up and hair is thrown in all directions across my face, over my eyes, into my mouth. I turn to face the wind to clear my face. The symbolism is not lost on me.
It is coming in strong gusts now. What starts as a low hum rises high, squealing, and falls. It rises again in a whoosh and whirls around in blustery assertion.
Unbridled wind in my face. I remain tethered to the ground.
The wind seems to bring to life what I cannot put into words.
Loss, brutality, love, desperation, joy.
It is all part of the same package.
I am standing under a steadfast pine tree. My mind is quiet. There is nothing to figure out.
“If you could choose a superpower,” my son asks at dinner, “which would you choose, invisibility or the ability to fly?”
“Flying,” I tell him, “the wind is a wise teacher.”
 | Jessica Curtis is a professional coach who helps people cultivate intention and live from a place of meaning and authenticity. If you think you could benefit from working with Jessica or want to invite her to work with your group, reach out to start a conversation. |
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