Collecting the Mist

A misty morning awoke today, with drifting clouds clinging to the east side of the valley, passing gently over trees still bare from Winter. Rain droplets clung to the darkened branches of birch trees, like old tears that remembered themselves after the spell of dry weather. Plenty of things are happening today, plenty of busyness, worry, organization and fear. The birds don't seem to mind, though; they greeted the Sun under her blanket of gray coolness with an eruption of song and giddy celebration. I feel like the birch trees today, brought into high contrast under invisible wetness, forgotten tears clinging to my outer reaches of perception. I find it amazing how much I can forget, and how silly a receptive device the brain can be. It seems to thrive on detailed memory, yet eagerly relinquishes its prize for the sake of crisis or happiness. I begin to feel as though I've just raised myself to standing from a hospital wheelchair, still dressed in ridiculous soft blue. I can believe in the procedure I've undergone, as a cancer patient can believe in the removal of a tumor, and can imbibe the future ahead with thoughts of wary recovery and deep gratitude. Yet I must begin to walk once more, remember the reality that was abandoned by most serious necessity. Continue to live, changed. The birches relinquish their hold on life as soon as the forest no longer needs them, as soon as stronger, more durable trees break the canopy into light. I've struggled with an all-too-willingness to do this myself, an eager readiness to die for what I believe, rather than to live for what I believe. I feel like the birch trees today, brought into vivid colors, gathering and letting go the mist in tearful droplets, allowing themselves to live another cycle further.