tree, tower over me.

I want to stay smaller than the trees.
These ancient ancestors that have kept growing beyond what we’ll ever see in a lifetime.
Resting against its base, the redwood reverberates wisdom of slow, of pause, into my spine, my sacrum.
It knows, remembers, through the roots that connect to past generations of its elders.
Somehow in human history, we have neglected the wisdom of our roots.
Our feet no longer feed wisdom to our hearts, our minds,
Or maybe they do but we forgot how to listen to somatic truth.
My grandfather has thrived through the most difficult 100 years in history.
He has outlived beloved friends, stayed and stayed as they left this world.
His life, his breath, his will to live, links to the lives, the breath, the will of all those who crossed over seas to know this soil.
And I, and you, are sprouts that have grown from burned trunks that somehow brought new life.
You are the new life searching for fertile soil.
You are the seedling of contagious intuition that is begging for your remembrance.
For now, there is no longer a clear line between fiction and non-fiction.
We are being called into blending, trusting the unseen and questioning the seen.
For now, we are walking on old, heaving ground asking to be stripped of useless advice.
For now, we listen.

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