Rain droplets and bright flashes streak across the night sky. Announcing the arrival of a new season and ushering in seemingly spontaneous growth the following morning.
The arrival of a season is not always graceful. Violence, strikes to the usual way of life, and fires destroying what was once built strong. Thunder and lightening followed by a torrential downpour wiping away any trace of what once was.
Memories of the past landscape exist, but only within those eyes of visitors who choose to remember and revel upon how differently things look.
Yet this process is not new to nature. Seeds planted below ground years prior, forgotten beneath the branches of what just 'is', await moments like these to spout anew. Soil tarnished by years of harsh treatment are stripped away leaving fertile ground for growth of such proportions that only dreams are made of its magnitude. Debris of what stood tall only the day before become the fertilizer for what will grow in its place, twice as tall some say.
It is there I stand. Among the debris, the stripped earth, the remnants of a single violent storm having removed all evidence of past grandeur. Casualties of empires built and goals achieved only to be swept out of vision.
The earth below my trodden footpath stirs with promise that only the trained eye can detect. Although my eye is hardly trained, desperate for hope it sees with eyes that believe in the promise of tomorrow.
The truth of nature and of time. For it has been said there is a time to build and a time to tear down. A time to weep and time for joy.
Now is a time for hope
The arrival of a season is not always graceful. Violence, strikes to the usual way of life, and fires destroying what was once built strong. Thunder and lightening followed by a torrential downpour wiping away any trace of what once was.
Memories of the past landscape exist, but only within those eyes of visitors who choose to remember and revel upon how differently things look.
Yet this process is not new to nature. Seeds planted below ground years prior, forgotten beneath the branches of what just 'is', await moments like these to spout anew. Soil tarnished by years of harsh treatment are stripped away leaving fertile ground for growth of such proportions that only dreams are made of its magnitude. Debris of what stood tall only the day before become the fertilizer for what will grow in its place, twice as tall some say.
It is there I stand. Among the debris, the stripped earth, the remnants of a single violent storm having removed all evidence of past grandeur. Casualties of empires built and goals achieved only to be swept out of vision.
The earth below my trodden footpath stirs with promise that only the trained eye can detect. Although my eye is hardly trained, desperate for hope it sees with eyes that believe in the promise of tomorrow.
The truth of nature and of time. For it has been said there is a time to build and a time to tear down. A time to weep and time for joy.
Now is a time for hope
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