Acorns Above Me

Do you think the acorn thinks itself part of the oak when it is held by the oak's slender fingers? Do you think the acorn, formed by the oak, held tightly by the oak, thinks that the mighty oak needs it to survive? And when the acorn falls to the hardened ground do you think it feels abandoned? When its hardened shell and acorn cap crack and break do you think it feels its life is over? And when it feels the pull of the earth drawing it deeper into its soil do you think it resigns itself that this is its grave?

When I used to walk the land I never returned without at least one acorn treasure in my pocket. A treasure my fingers rolled and turned over and over as I would walk. Now, when I walk I look up at the trees. Their arms have become homes where life begins, finds its wings and leaves to spread its song and color. Their roots hold the soil in place when storms and winds would strip the cover from the plants, the flowers and grass. Their height and breadth spread out and offer shade for the delicate lives that need the sun but not its intensity. And even in their death, they still provide life, shelter and sustenance.

It's a long way down from the oak's strong branches. There are no "do overs" you get but one fall. You might land protected by those whom the oak shelters and you can nestle into the soft soil and grow. You might land upon the beaten path where others, like myself, walk and yes, perhaps crush you beneath our unknowing feet.  I think I might just like to hang on a bit dearest oak, can we talk about this?

Life, love, our callings and our hearts know the pull of gravity. Eventually, we just have to let go and fall. When I used to walk the land I always looked down for acorns. Now I'm learning, slowly, to look up at acorns who've learned the thrill of flying.