It’s such a mysterious work of the depths.

Also when just now there is almost no one who sees me. Including here, I notice.

Yet in this mysterious strange quietude, shifts of substance are taking place.

In my teens I once wrote a poem about my essence having deserted me. It’s on my mind now.

I am going about my day, a little bit drifting, a luxury after so much structured work. Just now it’s also very stormy weather. I tumble into reveries, watching the trees. The branches so wild, the trunk so still. The branches terrifyingly wild, it sometimes seems. It’s a shock that they can be tethered to any stillness at all, but they are, and the tree trunks look immoveable.

They are comforting me. Though the wildness of my current living feels ferocious, somewhere, also true, is the peace of a truly established being, with roots which go all the way to the source of life, which carry sustenance and which enable growing and straining. I am taking up everything I need to grow, and I am not hollow and will not, despite my feelings, snap in two when it feels too much.

I won’t. So the trees reassure me.