Dorothy and Toto

"I don't think we're in linear spacetime anymore, Toto."

"one candle for every 90 years"

It was the best 90th birthday bash ever! Brooks and Mollie cooked dinner while Marybeth and I decorated the tree that Jim and I cut down and brought in a few days earlier. Marybeth and I did the best with the decorations and lights we had, which were mighty old and eclectic, and I’m pretty sure we used some of the same lights and ornaments Dad must have used himself at one point. If only the Christmas decorations could talk! He did teach me how to put lights on the Christmas tree after all. We ate soup, then dessert, and then the meat- because when you’re 90 you can do whatever you want! “You’re 90 Grandma! Go crazy!”

I haven’t even been gone a week and I already miss it. Looking at the photo of the cake Mollie made next to the fish I can’t help but think about how those fish got there! The county fair of course! And that makes me think of all the other little stories all the other little things have behind them. The farm is so full because of those little things with little stories. Like the painted protectors of the fish bowl, which are from the Pig Roast when everyone got into arts and crafts. What is Quality? Layers and layers of stories is Quality.

I feel like a ship that’s pulled up anchor and now I’ve managed to landsail all the way out here to California. I left Columbiana and spent the weekend with friends in Dallas, then to El Paso, and then an extra special stop in Scottsdale, AZ to see where Corey gets her character from. I pulled into town yesterday and already all sorts of big news has come. Now’s not the time for that, but Winn arrived today sans luggage thanks to the airlines, and tonight we’re going out to eat with everyone. I’m tending to like the slowed down mellow Christmas approach. Sometimes the holiday’s can be sad, but this year they’ve been turning out alright. It’s a long and a windy road- until we reach the light.

tell my feet, i made it home

Tell My Feet I Made it Home
by vinx

If on a mountain I could stand and see
Below the roads where I have been
The endless Reach would
Hold me where I am
Would I clearly see
What I could never find?
Tell my feet, I made it home
Tell my feet, we made it home
Tell my feet, I made it home
Tell my feet, we made it home – we made it home
If I could walk beside the shore and hear
The ocean whisper grace once more
A voice so clear
To those that feel so blind
Would I believe
What my heart knew all along?
Tell my feet, I made it home
Tell my feet, we made it home
Tell my feet, I made it home
Tell my feet, we made it home – we made it home
Lookin’ on the inside
Lookin’ on the outside
Why must I walk to find where I can stand?
Trust me eyes to see me through
Ooh they always let
Me stumble so blind
Only my heart
Knows the truth to take me home
Tell my feet, I made it home
Tell my feet, we made it home
Tell my feet, I made it home
Tell my feet, we made it home – we made it home

reflections and directions in a weave form

(Check out this newspaper clipping I found in a drawer here last night)

Chuck and MaryAnn King, two of the nicest folks you’ll ever meet, had a Christmas party last night. I remember hearing stories about Chuck King and his band from my mother for about as long as I’ve been hearing stories about Columbiana. Mom tells me she used to sing in his band in high school, and Lance and Troy used to take lessons from him when they lived down here years ago.

Chuck and his family have been living in the valley for about as long as Grandma and Pop have, I believe. Their house is a staple on the drive from town to the farm, but for all the years I’ve been driving by it, I’ve never made it in, until last night. Chuck’s both a trumpet player and a trumpet teacher, and every Christmas he invites his students and their families over to play Christmas songs and sing along. This was my first year attending.

So there I was, drinking hot apple cider and singing “Joy to the World” with Chuck, and I got to thinking about how this is sort of like what Mom used to do. Maybe not so much has changed in the world after all, which reminds me…

I suppose I haven’t made the official announcement yet, and now seems like as good a time as any. A few days into December I got the call that my friend had found me a spot to live in Park City, in a loft above a nice lady in an old old house, up on the mountainside right close to town. It was a jewel of a find, especially this late in the season, because winter housing tends to fill up months in advance. To try and get a single is nearly impossible, but in a single day all the pieces fell into my lap and came together. It felt clear that this was what I’d been waiting for.

Now I know at one point or another I’ve said I wouldn’t go back to Park City this year, but I think that was the part of myself that doesn’t like to see myself have too good a time. It wasn’t that I wouldn’t go back because I wouldn’t enjoy it, quite the opposite actually. I said I wouldn’t go back because I was worried that if I went back once, I’d go back ten times. There is a pace of life up there I had the opportunity to taste last winter that is so great, so self-contained, so sweet, if you’re not careful you can slip into a lifestyle adjustment that sets the clock for the rest of your life. Again, not that it’s a bad thing, it’s just that I’ve got a lot of work left to do to get the 2012 Music Festival underway.

Fortunately Bowen explained to me that two winters is actually the way to go, and only after two winters do you have to worry you’re drifting into year round ski bum status. Heck, if Bowen hadn’t gone back her second year she would have never met James, and now look where they are? Getting married in May.

Not that I’m looking for a bride, I’m just looking to buy a little more time living life for life’s sake before I choose a life path that’s a little more long-term. Two years feels full circle, and a full circle is nature’s perfection. The other thing is that now that I know what I’m doing, now that I’ve already been there for a season, there are so many things I can do a little bit better, like getting a single for instance.

The only problem last year was that I didn’t have any place I could go to be quiet and write. Living in employee housing was a trip back to freshman year in the dorms, which was one of the funnest years of my life don’t get me wrong, it’s just communal living has its limitations as far as how much control you have over the way you live. Humans are adjusting creatures, we adapt to our surroundings. Now that I have a single, and I’ve learned everything I’ve learned living down here since last winter, I believe a marriage of my ski bum self and my writing self is going to be possible.

The mountains are one of the most inspiring places to be. Sitting in the lift shack eye level with the clouds and staring out into the valley is one of the greatest creative laboratories I’ve ever been in. When you don’t have time to write all the day’s revelations down though, the visions tend to just keep on floating up into the sky, which is fine too. But this year, I’m going to go for a yolking of my two better halves.

Sorry, I digressed. I’ve been meaning to tell you guys that and I guess it slipped in right there. But anyways, back to the Christmas party and thinking about heroes.

When Brooks and I walked in the party was already well underway. We had missed a message or two and found out about the gathering last minute. Mollie wasn’t feeling very well, but Brooks and I have been meaning to get over to see Chuck and MaryAnn for some time now and we really wanted to go.

Chuck was upstairs directing the band and MaryAnn was tucked away around the corner somewhere, so at first we didn’t see any familiar faces. We mingled slowly and soon enough we’d been greeted and led over to the cider. We let Chuck know we were there and then sat back and enjoyed the music.

A nice looking lady came over and introduced herself as Emily Radkin and asked me what my name was.

“What’s your name? I’ve seen you at church with your grandmother before…”

“Oh yes, hi there. My name’s Cole Suttle and this is my brother Brooks.”

I told her, and then she told me a golden little tale that seems to optimize something about what’s it’s like to be from a small town.

“Well I thought so! I went to school with you parents, and I remember when I was in 7^th grade your Daddy was a senior in high school, and those Suttle boys were just, ahhhh!” and she clutched her chest and looked to the sky with a sigh and a dreamy eyed expression on her face. “Ya’ll two come from some mighty fine folks I hope you know. How’s your mother?” and we drifted into some lovely Christmas time small talk.

I don’t know why hearing things about my Dad that I’ve never heard before makes me so happy, but it does. These things feel like puzzle pieces that you can’t go looking too hard for, but when they come, they just come. Hearing about how Dad was the high school stud especially makes me smile, and proud. It’s the proud of papa feeling again, and it reminds me to count my blessings.

Brooks and I walked over to get more cider and met Emily’s husband who saw us coming and asked us “Are ya’ll Suttle boy’s?”

“Sure are,” we said. “I’m Cole and this is my brother Brooks.”

“Well I want you to know that your grandfather taught me Algebra at the University of Montevallo years ago. Coached me through it might be a better way to say it. I know I sure wouldn’t of made it through that class if it weren’t for your grand-daddy coaxing me through. He sure was a fine man. I used to come over to the farm and help him out whenever he needed something. Your grandmother’s about the sweetest thing in the world too. How’s she getting’ along? Sure is good to have you young boys around here. Good good.”

Another type of pride and joy swept over me and I knew I must have had a silly looking grin on my face.

“That man was an original,” he went on. “Yup, that’s about the best way to say that. Your grand-daddy was an original. Don’t find too many like him.”

Frank Suttle was and original indeed, both of them. Sometimes it just clicks and I find myself living Dad’s life for a split moment, and this time it was Pop’s.

“Columbiana is just one of those story book little towns.”

There is no right way to express the honor and gratitude and fortune I feel to have such an inside view on what it means to really be FROM somewhere, without having actually grown up there. Not a big suburb where everybody is a stranger, but a small little town where everybody knows your name because they know your mama and daddy and they know their mama’s and daddy’s too. Small towns where your offspring meet your schoolmates and your neighbors are more like your family.

So though I’ve leaving for the mountains, my first Christmas party at Chuck and MaryAnn’s house represented everything that is great and special about what it means to live in a small town for a long time, and I won’t soon forget it. I’m glad I stayed down here as long as I have, because when I come back it won’t be like I’m just coming to the farm. When I come back, it’ll be like I’m coming home. Like I said, this isn’t where I’m from, but this is where I came from.

God bless this place and all the people in it.

some photos

presidential inspiration

Travis stopped through and offered me the chance to go down to Gulfport, MS with him to help him film this weekend. He’s working on a documentary piece about a man named Pat Smith who was Habitat for Humanity’s 2004 volunteer of the year. Some of you may remember hearing about an airplane that took off on the wrong runway in Lexington, KY this year. The plane subsequently crashed, killing 49 of 50 people on board, and Pat Smith was one of the passengers on board. He was actually on his way back down to Gulfport where he was heavily involved in the building of a number of Habitat house’s for families who had lost their home during Katrina.

Why is it that bad things happen to good people? Perhaps good and bad are not so clear cut, on any frontier. Whatever the reason, it seems to be that when bad things do happen to good people, the most powerful lessons are learned. Go figure. In the wake of tragedy, goodness has the potential to rush in and fill that space. In the case of Pat Smith, and the dedication of these 15 or more houses, that seems to clearly be the case.

In memory and honor of Pat Smith, a large group of Kentucky volunteers, as well as volunteers from all over the country, have been coming down to Gulfport since August to finish and complete the home project Pat started. This weekend was the dedication ceremony, and former President Jimmy Carter was slated to say a few words. Travis needed and extra hand to operate his second camera, and I was in the right place at the right time to do so. It was a great experience all around. Inspiring really. There really are a lot of caring people in the world, and to see the looks on the faces of the new homeowners really makes you think about how much difference individuals can have on others. Influence for the better. Be conscious of your vibe principals at work here, no doubt.

My favorite part were the newly planted trees in front of each of the houses. I think I’m seeing an angle for the Treevolution to take root…

(Notice Travis right up in there)

(Travis right up in there again)

Anniversary of the Dawn

Happy Birthday Mom!

Mom, all everyone can talk about is how incredible Thanksgiving was, and we all know that was all thanks to you. I realized it’s easier to talk about someone when they aren’t around, which is maybe why I talk so much about how great Dad is more often than I do you. Having lived here in your home, in your home town, I want to be direct about it and say that I know now Dad was only as successful as he was because of you. Every great man has a great woman behind him. Maybe I don’t find words enough to say it as often as I should, but I want you to know you inspire me. Without getting into details, I just want to make sure you know how much I love you, and appreciate you, and realize that I am who I am because of who you are. You are the coolest mother ever, the envy of all my friends, and I’m so happy that you found someone to share your life with again. Watching you work your magic during Thanksgiving I realized how lucky Lillian and Abel are to have you as well. Winn is an incredibly lucky man, and when I see how happy he makes you it gives me peace of mind and I know that everything is going to be OK. You have so much love to give, such an overflow of love, I am just so happy you found more family to share it with. You truly are the dawn because you bring light into so many people’s lives. The other day I was thinking about that thank you note that the painter wrote you and couldn’t help but smile. That never happens, and yet you touched him so deeply he felt inspired to write you a thank you note for allowing him to paint the house. I don’t know what the world may need, but I’m sure it’s more people like you. Perhaps because I’ve been so lucky to have you in my life my entire life I worry I forget to tell as often as I should how much you mean to me. But even outside of me, as a woman and a person, you are a beautiful and radiant being, and without a doubt the world is a better place because you are in it. I hope you have a great birthday, thank you again for everything you’ve given me. Thank you for all your support and unconditional love, and for making such an awesome team with Dad so that everything could have worked out just the way it has. Perhaps not the way you may have envisioned it years ago, but blessed none the less. Whatever I don’t express with words I trust you know by heart. If there is any way I can be as supportive of you as you are for me, please just let me know. “My door is always open” so to speak, just in case you ever need an ear to listen to you like a friend. Just making sure you know, I love you forever.

Your Son,
Cole

The Ascension

The Ascension

If it can be that Life
Is a Creation of Mind of Genius,
Then Death can be seen as another Creation
Of this Mind.
We as Children also have been given
His power to create-through thought.
The stronger the Belief the greater the
possibilty of it becoming realized.
Then it can be seen that there is no Death,
only that which is conceived.

"He that believeth in me, hath everlasting life."
John 6.47

outside and inside / before and after / then and now

I’ve been going through my journals.
This is my journal from 8/1-7/02.
Dad died 8/18/02.

8-1
A year go today was the SCI show at the Greek.
My morning drive got me pretty pumped today, perhaps it was the double shot of espresso. Either way I came to work feeling pretty good.
It’s hard to realize I only have two weeks with my dad left. That’s why I really need to get my shit together. I cannot go through school again the way I have in the past.
Reading the Gita is making a lot of things congeal together in my mind. For the most part, it’s a pretty practical guide. I also like that it is written as a single mystical experience. The “field of dharma” is a metaphysical one going on inside my head.
What war is to be waged?
Sin, and evil, are not confined to the devil. Temptation, sensation, pleasure in temporary things, that is what creates sin.
The battle is the battle of the will to tame the senses, which is not as easy as it sounds, or as hard as you might think.
What do I want to get done before I leave? Dad is so cool about this. I think we are all being really cool about this to tell you the truth. Mom’s looking out for me, I’m looking out for mom, Brooks is reasimilating.
Shine your life.
It is about time for me to really grow up and take off in my life. It is much better that I do so before…
These kinds of thoughts are unproductive, probably counterproductive. I need to not make plans, but realize, and act.
Is a plan a good thing to have?
I guess if it’s the right plan it’s good to have. But how can we tell the right plan from the wrong plan?
So if no plan is better, then aren’t you making a plan for no plan? The plan is no plan, and then you are right back where you started.
Who am I writing to? Whose my target audience? For now I’m writing to myself more than anyone. At least I’m writing for myself.
Surrender attachment to results. Today I’ll go home and meditate, then sleep, then play soccer. Still your mind in me.
It is important to distinguish what is changing and what is timeless in the world that surrounds.
The manifest world is created by the Pulse, the point of intersection between the field and the knower.

8-2
Indeed, a person is his faith.

8-7

I think I need to write to myself more than anybody right now.
The days are getting numbered and I’m letting them slip through my hands, sitting on my heels. Dad seems to be getting progressively worse. His enthusiasm is high when he speaks, but he only speaks in short bursts.
We’ve gotten pretty used to the hacking noises. The only way any of us can sit in that room with Dad, and not be utterly horrified by the pain he is in, is because we have dulled it in our minds, and we love him. Even though spending time with him these day’s means watching TV while he lies next to you.
I wonder what sort of dreams my dad is having?
That is a question I’d like to ask him.
If dreamless sleep is the same as death, he might already be dead. What a powerful karmic experience to march slowly and thoughtfully into your own death.
The brothers come tomorrow, which means I think it will be a pretty powerful day.
I’m excited to have the family here because so far nothing is more comforting than crying with my mother.
There is a fear inside of me that worries I force myself to cry. Why do I do that?

found photos

There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you're so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic.

— Diane Setterfield, THE THIRTEENTH TALE

*

happy 21st Lance by the way

at the pig and a Pop story

I was in Piggly Wiggly getting a few things this morning, and as I was checking out, George Nix was walking in. George Nix lives across the Highway from the farm. He’s the one with all the goats. If you are ever at the farm and you hear a goat, it’s most likely George’s.
“How’s it goin’?” I said as he walked over to shake my hand in the check out line.
“Jus’ fine, jus’ fine. Hey, what were ya’ll doin’ over there at the farm yesterday?” he asked me.
“Yesterday?” I said as I scanned my memory.
“Well, mighta been the day before.”
I was worried for a moment because we’d been out of town, and I couldn’t think what he was talking about. We haven’t had a pig roast in weeks, so it couldn’t be that.
“Yeah, down by the lake…”
“Oh yeah!” it hit me. “Brooks and I were planting a weeping willow,” I told him and noticed the girl checking me out start to smile.
“Well I seen you over there, I was running back and forth, and I couldn’t tell if ya’ll needed help or anything. We just had 24 baby goats and so we were all over the place or I’da been over.”
“Oh yeah, thanks but we were fine. We were just planting a tree.”
“Yeah? Where’d you get that? I’ve been looking to plant a willow out behind my catfish pond, ya know?”
“That would be a great place,” I said, and finished paying for my groceries. “Brooks ordered it from the national arbor day foundation or something. I’ll find out for ya and let you know. Nothin’ better then planting a tree,.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Good to see ya, neighbor. Tell Jim and your grandmother I say hello.”
“Will do, take care.”
*

I’ve been going through some old journals, and in one from ’02 I wrote down a story Pop told me. Here it is…

There were three boys.
The first one bragged that his Dad wrote a few words on paper and got paid $100 for it. The second bragged that his Dad wrote a few word on paper, then sang it in a song, and got paid a $1000 for it. The third boy said he had them all beat because his Dad wrote a few words on paper, called it a sermon, and then it took 8 men to collect all the money he got for it!

Conscious Planting

Brooks and I participated in the Treevolution yesterday. Ever since I stood on the Wesley’s back porch with Uncle Tom this summer, watching their weeping willow weep, I’ve been wanting to plant one at the farm. I mentioned this to Brooks a while back, and sure enough, when we came back from California, the weeping willow Brooks ordered was here.

We decided by the backside of the lake would be a good place, so we dug a hole, and followed the steps he’d given me to type up a while back (see earlier blog).

I held the cutting in place while Brooks wound the few, delicate roots around the inside of the hole we had dug, then gently filled it in with the planting soil/organic mix we made with the soil we’d dug out. Then he gently firmed down the ground around the tree, and almost imperceptibly, seamlessly, I let go and the earth took hold. I gently let go- and the tree stood on it’s own. There was a power shift there, between the planter and that which is being planted in, and it’s subtle, but I think I feel it. I think this is a good way to think about the relationship between worrying about what you can control, and have faith that there is something omniscient that is all powerful and can influence your life invisibly.

Healing, for example. Healing is sort of like faithfully planting yourself in something more powerful and good than you think you are, and then allowing the Tao to return you to equilibrium. When you cut your leg, your skin starts to grow back whether you want it to or not. What is that state it’s returning to? What power causes your heart to beat without you thinking about it at all? What is a pulse? I mean really, think about it. Think about it. ...BaBump-BaBump-BaBumbp… Life is always trying to return to that initial perfect state, and something keeps it going, and going, and going, and going. Whether it be in your own self- or in the garden of Eden, there was once perfection. I think that is why we intuitively swim for the Divine, it just feels true. It resonates with our deepest self. Like bugs to a light, it just feels like home.

And now, for the first time, this weeping willow is begining to support itself. The soil keeps it steady, but it cannot grow the tree for the tree. The tree must work with the soil to learn to grow itself. It was planted tenderly and with love back into the earth from which it came from, from which we all came. This tree, which came from who knows where, is back home now, like a fish out of water it's back into the earth where it can breathe. Ahhhh, relief.

I mused on the process that was about to begin, thinking about how the roots are going to feed off the nutrients in the soil and grow, deeply, into the earth. Deeply into the earth, right here, on the farm in Alabama. And where did all those nutrients come from? I know how long it take's fossils to turn into oil, how long does it take to form a nutrient? What life cycle feeds the green? Ashes to ashes we all fall down, and the Sun of course too.

I know, planting a tree seems simple, and it is simple, but it’s awe inspiring just the same. Amazing the way nature works. Amazing that you can plant something, in the dirt, and it will grow. Life feeds off life, in accordance with one another. Of course there are some other elements, and threats like the beaver and bad weather, and that’s the part you’ve got to surrender to the gods, so to speak. Have faith the Higher Power is more creative than you, and remember the golden rule. Be conscious of your vibe, ya dig?

Brooks explained to me that, because it’s so cold, the tree is going to sit dormant for most of the winter. (I guess that’s the same higher power the hay fields are working with too, huh?) The reason it’s good to plant trees in the fall instead of the spring is because this way the tree can focus all its energy on growing its roots, and by the time spring comes around it will have a solid foundation to grow up from. When the spring comes, all that energy shoots up and out the trunk, and that’s when the above ground growth really begins. Think about it in relation to yourself. Which part of you is growing above the ground? Which part of you is growing beneath the ground?

The sun set just as we finished, and I had a moment of expanded presence vibing on the whole thing. I tried to imagine myself in five years standing right here, next to this tree. I wonder how much the tree and the land will have changed? I wonder how much I’ll have changed. Go ahead, imagine you planted a tree, and you’re standing there next to it. Are you there? Now try and vision who you will be in five years. Who will you invite to come sit under that tree with you?

Go dig a hole, plant a tree, and get your hands dirty. It feels good, you’ll see what I mean. Then comes the patience part, but that’s another part of what makes the experience of growing so beautiful. Trees grow nice and slow. This tree is planted for the future.

I think I might have heard stories about Dad trying to plant a weeping willow by the lake one year, but it didn’t work out, so we are hoping this is the year it’s meant to be; meant to begin. Weeping Willows need a lot of water, they love water, which makes the spot by the lake ideal. I’m sure Dad knew that for the same reason we do. I wonder if the reason there aren’t weeping willows here is because he learned something trying to grow trees that we are about to. If he were here, we could just ask him.

“Hey Dad, did you ever try to grow weeping willows down by the lake? Is there some reason this isn’t going to work that you could just tell us and save us the time?”

But then again, if I put it like that, I don’t think Dad would tell us. I think he’d honestly rather we just try to grow the trees ourselves and see what happens. I think that’s something he taught me early on, but I didn’t understand it I guess. I was unaware of what it really meant, and it was never stated this clearly. To be honest, if he was still here to tell me, I’m not sure I’d understand it yet either. But from here, standing right here next to this tiny little tree by the lake, watching the son go down on the farm on the first day of the first December without Pop, shivering a little bit because the first real cold of winter cam in last night, from here I think I understand it. I think this is something Dad taught me, but that I only understand because Dad isn’t here now. Dad would say you have to just get in there and do it and figure it out as you do. It’s like Arts and Crafts, I see now. Experience is the teacher, life is the teacher, get in there and get your hands dirty, it’s time to go.

God willing, in a few years, this tree should grow to weep out over the lake. It’ll be a mighty fine spot to have a picnic with my children under. It’s only one tree, but it’s a conscious tree.

Brooks and I said a blessing, and left it to be.

All this tree talk got me thinking about a poem I remember writing when I was on my NOLS course for thirty days in the Idaho/Montana wilderness. I sort of wrote it as a joke to pass the time, and it was meant to be silly, and to be honest I had forgotten all about it until recently. When I was home for Thanksgiving, I found my NOLS journal and remembered the poem. It’s not a great poem really, but it feels serendipitously appropriate to where I am in my life right now. This would have been the summer before my junior year of college I wrote it, and I think I’ll share it with you now. I could try and smooth out the edges, but it wouldn’t have as much character, so this is straight from the journal. Think Dr. Seuss rhythms.


To Be a Tree – written 7/5/02 on a mountain, next to a tree
ChS

To be a tree would be fine by me,
Big or small or wide or thin
I’d have a forest full of friends.
I wouldn’t have to move, just sway,
I’d be a dancer, the wind my partner,
Wake to the sun and bird’s song sweet,
Sleep with the stars never leaving my feet.
No feet at all, in fact, I think,
Just deep running roots and soil to sink
my seeds in, or cast them to the wind
Sharing my vision with my forest of friends.

Some might say, “Why be a tree?
There’s a million of them, and boring they be!”
“Maybe you’re right,” to them I say,
And chuckle sadly as I watch their dismay.
Maybe I should be a man,
Work all day, and summers too,
When I see children through my office window
Climbing on trees with faces of glee,
Thinking "Oh how I wish that could still be me."

No I think that’s not for me,
It’s nice but most men never see
How great it is to be a tree.
Growing slowly, up and free,
All the room in the world to be
And when it’s time my roots will dry,
The wind will dip me one last time,
I’ll fall to pieces, smiling if I could,
Life starts over, my life as wood,
Seeping back to the soil that bore me,
And in a few years I’ll be up again,
New friends to live for, new birds to nest.
Things will change, but I remain.

I realize now I’d rather be
A tree because they live eternally,
Until the man cuts all the trees
To build another office, smothering me.
Trees are living, always never dead,
A cyclical future sounds good instead
Of dying once, living with that dread.

To be a tree, that’s fine by me.
I hope you’re listening, help teach me.

Everything explains everything else, nothing explains itself.