The last few weeks have been full of the experience of caring for my former spiritual director in her last days and finally, the exhausting honor and privilege of accompanying her to the far edge of her life. This morning, I went looking for anchors.
What keeps them standing, against the odds
of gravity, wind and rain,
of eagles nests and woodpeckers'
excavations and human
intrusions?
What anchors them in tumultuous times,
branches whipping wildly,
their trunks swaying to the
rhythm of the wind
as storms seem bent on destruction?
I know of roots and cambium,
of heartwood, xylem and phloem,
but what of these curious protrusions
that grip the earth as if
holding on for dear life?
Surely we need whimsy in the face
of what feels like chaos.
We need to let our minds
run free and welcome the moments of
imagination that allow us to breathe again
and to smile, if only in passing.
They are the giants' toes, of course.
