color my space

picture my tree

I don’t take enough pictures. Everyday, I tell myself, take some pictures today, create some way to remember this wonder of a life, these moments that make me lose my breath because they are so beautiful. I have a tree that I love and everyday I would stand under it, as the magenta leaves rain down upon me, promising myself that I would take pictures of these leaves, this bliss that this tree gives me. And everyday, I was somehow surprised to see that my tree was still so full of color, that the wind hadn’t made the leaves leave yet. And I would promise myself that, yes, today, I will take a picture of this tree.

I wonder why I do the things that I do. I act like I know what I am doing, I act like I am in control, but in reality I haven’t a clue. Others seem to have it together and so I ask, “How do you do it?” But no one has any good answers either.

If every day of my life was worth a dollar, how would I spend it? And at the end of the day, after my money is long gone, would I want my dollar back?

I am a news junkie and as a result, death enters my mind often. Death is a part of life and we are all going to die one day, on some unforeseen day and at some unforeseen place. I, and any of us, could die today. And if that was to happen, would we be at peace with how we lived while we could?

We settle, every single one of us settles for not living the way we want, never fully letting go of the fears that stunt us into believing that we are not capable of what we once thought we were. Why do we do the things we do? Somewhere in the darkest place of our minds, our once-beloved dreams go to die. We always need dreams, for they get us out of bed and into the world, and as we grow and become more our true selves, new dreams take the place of the old and the old sometimes leave us like the leaves on the tree.

When leaves fall, is it death or is it freedom? And when dreams fall, same question. Does their departure finally set us free? The recycling of dreams somehow allows us to let go of what we once knew so completely as a part of who we were. With every new dream, every new day, we are given the opportunity to reinvent that person that we want so desperately to one day believe we have become.

But “one day” has come. We are not waiting anymore and in fact, never were. And then one day, the leaves of my tree were in the gutter on the street and the branches naked, with only a few fearful stragglers hanging on for dear life. And all this time, I wonder why my tree passed before me and I never took even one picture.

posted by Mary @ 8:18 PM