A hawk shrieks and circles above the tree tops as I wander through the silence, reaching out to rest my fragile human hand upon the deeply grooved bark of a hundred year old tree, mostly dead now. I am humbled by the age of these trees that tower above me, they are older than my father, maybe were seedlings when his father was a boy. They stand, rooted deeply into the earth, enduring sun, wind, rain and storm, offering shelter to all things smaller than themselves.
Something scurries off into the underbrush, a small brown bird hops from branch to branch, watching. He is the sentry, watching, ready to report, to give warning.
It appears I am alone in this space, except for him, but I know I am surrounded by millions of tiny, silent creatures all going about the business of staying alive, getting food, finding a mate, keeping the wheels spinning, doing what they were born to do, every day.
What was I born to do? I listen for an answer until I have forgotten the question, as I watch and marvel at the miracles all around me.
Perhaps the little things are enough, since life is so short and uncertain. Perhaps it is enough simply to….
and keep the hug sacks full to brimming over.