I have come with questions though my breath is short from the climb.
I see you enduring the frost and the heat, yet you remain.
Tell me of your spirit
Are you weary of the cycle, or do you find rest in the repetition?
I am the ancient breath in the valley. I do not tire, for I do not strive.
I do not try to be the forest; I simply am the green, the bark, and the decay.
But mother my world is measured in seconds and scores. I seek the fastest path the sharpest edge the quickest harvest. I am a spark trying to light a fire before the wind blows me out.
How do I carry the weight of what I must achieve?
Oh dear, listen to the stream.
It does not sharpen its edge to cut the mountain it yields and in yielding, it outlasts the granite.
You seek the summit while forgetting that the mountain is made of dust.
Your strength is not in the speed of your stride but in the depth of your roots.
Even the smallest seed knows the weight of the earth is not a burden but an embrace that holds it still until it is ready to bloom
And when the silence of the woods grows too overwhelming to me?
When the music in my mind fades, leaving only the quiet hum of my own thoughts?
Then be the silence my son!
The bird does not fear the empty sky and the valley does not fear the mist.
When your own music fades listen to mine. I am the consonance in the chaos.
I am the crescendo of the storm and the soft resolution of the dusk.
You are not a visitor here.
You are the song I am singing
Be still, and find that in thy quiet pulse, thou art the very music I composed."
