Most days I take a walk through a park, where the
trees are so plentiful it’s hard to see the sky. I used to barrel through, and
cajole myself to get my heart rate up. Now I get out of the car, walk a little,
then stop and breathe. A book, The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben,
taught me all about how trees communicate with each other and with me. I used
to see them only as shade, now they talk to me.
Today, right after I talked to a few trees, a park
employee in a truck barreled past me on his way to cut grass. That led to my
morning reverie. How can he cut the same grass, week after week? I couldn’t do
that job. How can the Rebecca-of-Sunnybrook-farm-type lady at my grocery store
keep a smile on her face as she hears that ding from the scanner all day long?
How can my attorney friend use the law to think? How can the teacher in the
studio next to me listen to wrong notes that come from her student’s loud horns?
I say, how cool that we all have different interests and varied abilities to
tolerate specific things.
This week they’re paving the road outside my music
studio. A man stands at the intersection to stop me or wave me by. On Wednesday,
he wore a halo of pulsing lights to keep him safe. I hollered at him. Your hat
is stylin’, I want one! I had Halloween in mind.
His laugh thrills me days later, and his body energy
brought me joy all week.
When you can, don’t barrel through life. Hear, see,
smell, and feel. And listen to the trees.
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