Even the oldest of trees continues its wonderful labor.
Hummingbird lives in one of them.
He's there for the white blossoms, and the secrecy.
The blossoms could be snow, with a dash of pink.
At first the fruit is small and green and hard.
Everything has dreams, hope, ambition.
If I could I would always live in such shining obedience
where nothing but the wind trims the boughs.
I am sorry for every mistake I have made in my life.
I'm sorry I wasn't wiser sooner.
I'm sorry I ever spoke of myself as lonely.
Oh, love, lay your hands upon me again.
Some of the fruit ripens and is picked and is delicious.
Some of it falls and the ants are delighted.
Some of it hides under the snow and the famished deer are saved.
Perhaps our love is never enough, but love, no matter how small, feeds some being. Maybe we don't see the results, only the small hardness of our hearts when love is not accepted or acknowledged.
Just today when I was out walking upon our local prairie, I gave a list to my companion of what I regretted in my life. We had been looking at the birds upon the flooded grassland, and as a pair of dowitchers or lesser yellowlegs or something along that line flew over I said, "I wished I knew birds better." Then without missing a beat, I added to the list, "I wish I knew Spanish better." I wish I was in better shape. I wish my knee didn't hurt so much. I wish I wasn't so old.
All of this comes from seeing such beauty and feeling such love, and wanting to dance with the world and give back to this earth all that she has invested in me.
One day the winter of my years will come upon me. Then, all my gifts may well be hidden by snow white hair and withered hands. My labor then will be that I can still love and be loved. This work, perhaps the only work that ever really matters, never ends. Amen.
What is on your list of regrets?