Down on the west coast, I get this feeling

  

Uproot. Drift. Reach.

The trees they teach and teach. If you’ll allow them to, if you’ll hush for just a moment and listen. One of the most ancient story tellers, they speak through their branches, their roots, their rings. Sometimes they have faces, sometimes they hold spaces. 

The driftwood on the beaches is polished, smooth, transformed. The rough outer bark, the mold and mildew removed by a thousand soft splashes. Hundreds of thousands of crashing waves, wacking them, carrying them. They all wash ashore, all different, all the same.

Pondering the metaphors the natural world has to teach me about my personal journey, there are a never ending supply of synchronicities. I feel like the last year has been the part where the ocean took me, where it looked like I was drowning. Addictions, pain crashing into my face, over and over. Sinking under, disappearing.

But I look at the beauty that such a process creates – polished. To be able to see such a massive tree uprooted, stripped naked and bare for all to see, it inspires me. It’s poetic. 

My heart is a piece of driftwood, tossed around and drowned. Washed up on a beach for all the world to see.

That’s okay with me.

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