January 5, 2020
I cannot help but marvel at the intricate weave of the bare vines in the winter. As the leaves drop from tree and vine, the forest’s edge shows its barest bones in the bare vines wrapping themselves with no heed to the other, simply attaching themselves, winding and weaving, twisting and turning until there is no end to the circuitous woody vine starting somewhere in the ground and ending on occasion back where it started.
Are we not like vines, clinging to our roots in the earth, tenuous as they may be, reaching, stretching out for something to touch, something to hold on, something to wrap ourselves around in the midst of our joys and our pains. Yes, yes, we are as convoluted as the vines that twist and turn, seeking solace amongst each other, or simply partaking in the pleasure of communion amongst themselves. Yes, yes, we are as interwoven with each other as the vine and the tree.
