Monday, January 2, 2017
The world in which a quiet tree can suddenly erupt with the surprise of a thousand wings taking flight and the one in which nature has conceived for the young to pass from a nest of bones into a bed of arms as they emerge into the world is the one into which we are born. It is also the one from which we will pass sooner than any one of us thinks. The world in which a leaf is always floating somewhere in a pool of water, wind always whistles through a forest, and animals are carving out their homes in the floor of the world is our world. It is our home, for now, and as I look toward another year of living in it, I seek only to remember this: that any way of living that distances me from my knowledge of my place in this world, that makes me forget, even, that this is the world where I live, is wrong.