Sunday, March 5, 2023

The dead looking oak tree now has a few hidden pale green spots.  I am hopeful.  I don’t think the birds care if the tree is dead or live.

Late Saturday afternoon as the rain pauses, I walk outside to pick up my mail. I watch my feet to avoid the many puddles. At some point I stop and look up.  The sky is vibrant with color, the trees and bushes breath and the birds are chattering.  I am reminded we are all alive and whole.

I read the first couple of paragraphs of the obituaries of the paper, not the small print ones but the ones written by reporters. I am frequently disappointed by absence of cause of death.  I look to predict the cause of my future death.  Too early to really know.

I am continuing to read WHEN BREATH BECOMES AIR. It is like I am reading it for the first time. I don’t want it to end.  I don’t want the author to die. But of course, he does.