observing a tree through seasons
When the first buds push through winter bark, there is a quiet insistence. Not the loud triumph of blooming, but the simple fact of growth. The tree has survived another dormancy. Its roots have held fast beneath frozen soil.
We watch. We wait. The waiting itself is the practice.
The canopy thickens. Leaves have expanded, overlapping, casting shade. The tree has reached its fullest expression in this season. Yet already, beneath the abundance, there are hints of impermanence—yellowing edges, fallen branches, the space where a limb once grew.
Incompleteness and wholeness are not opposites.
the beautiful repair
Color deepens, then disperses. The tree releases what it held. Each fallen leaf is an act of trust—letting go, knowing that next year begins with emptiness. The bare branches reveal the tree's true architecture, its vulnerability, its strength.
In the ash-colored afternoon, the tree stands honest.
Snow clings to bare limbs. The tree is still. Its visible life has contracted entirely into the slow current beneath the bark. But this stillness is not death. It is preparation. It is the breath held before the next season's emergence.
We return to watch. Again. Always.