Cloud shadows pass over the hills. Where there was sun, a shadow as big as the whole hill. And then it passes on to the next hill, leaving illumination in its path.
In the mornings the western slopes are dark, in the evening, the eastern sides lie in the shadow of the hill's own mass.
Each hill and each hillside get their shares of both the light and the dark.
I am no more or less than the trees on those hills. I am no more important or necessary in this world than the wildflowers or the geese or the rabbit or the deer. I am no less important either. We are each one of a kind and we are all of a piece. We all live, go dormant, bloom, grow. We all thrash in the winds of the storm, shelter ourselves from wild weather, lose pieces of ourselves and grow protective scars. In this season of young tomato plants growing from seed, growing daily larger and stronger, even after some small unmeant carelessness breaks a branch, I see quite clearly that living things want nothing more than to go on living and growing. We can't help it: We all go on because Life makes it easier to go on than to cease.
I hope the illumination that I feel, in the wake of this latest passing cloud, remains.
I hope I don't forget how fortunate I am to be alive.
No matter what.
8 hours ago