The Trees Are Sleeping

Little Sprout is enchanted by the thought of sleeping trees. I think I am, too.

Raccoons are active in the woods at work. I had forgotten how big they really are. There is one, in particular, that isn't afraid to come into the circle of light around the front stoop. He waddles by, closer every night, looking at me over his shoulder as if to say "I am not afraid of you. I am over here because I want to be, but I am brave enough to walk right up to you. You wouldn't dare hurt me." I like him for his boldness. He is a big, fat fellow, with a rolly polly walk. It is easy to imagine, in the dark of the night, that he could one night just sit up and start talking to me.

I can feel winter coming, and this year it saddens me. Usually I am a bit excited about the coming snow, or feeling a terrible sense of "hurry, hurry" in the late fall. This year I am more melancholy about it. It seems the summer was lost. I am thinking of how fast time slips through our fingers; how we often don't realise how quickly it goes until we have lost too much of it. I want to reach out and slow down life. I want a chance to savor the moments before they drift away.

And yet, I think of the 'coons and trees. They don't fight the changing of the seasons. They don't worry about tomorrow. They don't agonize over yesterday. There is only today. There is only trust in the changing of the seasons. The sure knowledge that today is all that matters.

I realise that, by tying myself into knots making promises to do better tomorrow and forgive myself for yesterday, I am missing out on the one thing that really will make life slow down. I am missing out on today.

And that is just silly.