I’ve heard stories about trees, talked to people, recognized them, and read books about trees. I’ve spoken to them most of my life, but this one, across the pasture and into my forest, speaks to me every time I look closely at him.  This tree is dead, but he stands out, his spirit is strong. He spoke to me today as I sat in the backyard with Maria reading.

I don’t want to say what he said; it seems too private.

“After four or five grim wet days, cold and dark, suddenly bright spring – cold, clear blue sky with a few clean, well-washed clouds. Thin and full of light. The wet earth is springy; green moss shows in the short grass under the pines. The frogs sat for a moment (but it was still cold). The buds are swelling. A flycatcher was playing in the woods near the stile as I came up, and the pileated woodpecker, bright combed, darted out, swinging up and down over the field to the east.”

-Thomas Merton, When The Trees Say Nothing.

There is a lot of horror in the world and beauty. Merton always reminds me to see the beauty right under my nose.  I often make a choice: I want to look at the beauty and think of it before the world outside tries to drown me in sadness and anger. That is what the spiritual life is all about for me.

–me.