Where the trees begin

Life, interrupted
Richmond Hill, ON, February 2010

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Some of us choose to look at trees in winter as lifeless shadows of their former selves. On the surface, they often look forlorn, spindly, empty. But if you look closely, almost close your eyes and feel their presence, you realize there's much more going on.

I tried to appreciate this morose-looking stand of trees as I stood on a windswept hill with my sister. Our kids were screaming up and down the hill on their toboggans, enjoying the bitter cold as only children can. I couldn't shake the sadness of the past few months from my head, but was immensely glad we had all figured out how to carve out these little, precious opportunities to get together and just be. Maybe those trees weren't so grey after all.

The more I looked at the trees, the more I saw in them. I imagined that every fragile-looking branch represented potential life. I knew that life would be ready to show itself once the snow melts and the spring sun returns. The pall of grey that defined the tree line would soon be gone, replaced by a riot of green that few of us ever take the time to appreciate. I looked past the grey to a somewhat brighter, more colorful future. The thought made me smile.

I'll return to this place on our next visit, and if I play my cards right I'll have my camera in hand. But until then, this is the scene, the moment that I'll hold on to as I remind myself that imagining the potential is often as rich an experience as seeing the end result.

Your turn: What do we see when we take the time to see the forest for the trees? (Sorry, I'm feeling existential tonight. Thanks for humoring me.)