1. How old is a redwood? How old is the sky? How long does it take for a bird to learn to fly? Does water grow old or change into something new? Does light have an age, or does it just fade away?
2. I laid down for a rest on the forgiveness bench. When I finally surrendered, the sky lifted me through an apex of towering redwoods. I guess forgiveness is an ascension, after all.
3. As I trip over obstacles, I stumble across grace.
4. Hold my hand as we explore this sacred land. Witness the dance of the fairies within the soaring ring of redwoods. Lean on the enduring boulders dressed with green capes of moss. Cross the rainbow bridge into the depth of the undergrowth, find your soul, coax it out of hiding. Refresh your consciousness in a waterfall of mountainous tears. Take a collective sigh, breathing in the authority of the trees, and the power of their regeneration. Maybe stagnation is less of a captor and more of an allowance; a space for emotions to be composted as life is rebirthed. Hold my hand as we rise like the redwoods and ground into each other’s disintegration.
5. My firstborn. My life saver. My cheerleader. My guiding light. My hero. My blessing. My baby.