Dear Friend of my Heart,
In my dream last night an angry red-headed man started becoming a story. He turned into a poetic prose, where every word was like a butterfly emerging from her cocoon. If I could, I would tell you the story. I know you would love it. I can’t though. That dream is long gone.
A plant met the worst of all seasons and survived. It grew to be a majestic tree. It was strong, as was said of it. What was this strength? Hardening of the outer crust, such that it became less sensitive to the hostility of the world? Or is it a becoming which is much more than skin deep… It did not just manifest in hardening, scars, or crooked branches. The fruit it bore was so sweet that people came from far and wide to taste it. The fruit, they say, was the expression of the tree’s wise and kind soul. The fruit is where all the tender dreams that kept the tree going in the worst of days find their place. You should taste the fruit too, dear friend. It carries the love of a tree for her seed, that might have become her companion some day. So when you eat it, do it with much gratefulness and feel every flavor that fills you up with ecstasy. Let it tell you everything…
the morning light and the evening light, both cast the most beautiful shadows… the former is keen and fresh, the latter contemplative and soft… these photos are from the morning, but I tried to express a third time… not the day of course… something else… perhaps a dream…
Do you remember your dream from last night, dear friend? Do you think dreams are honest? I do.
Eager to hear from you.