Personal Myth

Personal Myth Carl Jung

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Aesthetic Arrest, Trees

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Soul restoring, sky blue and living greens of leaves, gazing up, anchored with the earth, the wind whispers secrets about the life of trees. The branches and leaves are alive, dancing, teeming with life, where humming birds play chase and hover near as if to say, who-are-you, the thrumming of their iridescent flight filling my ears.

Leaves rustle and the tree moves, sways and bends. The movement comes from within. The tree is moving it’s branches, responding to the wind, conversing of all the days and suns and moons and tides that have come and gone. History is in the wind and the trees know. They are so busy, each atom with it’s ear splitting electrons, wizzing in tight trajectory, the deafening sound of breaking chemical bonds, in the midst of the high-pitched whine of light made sugar. Weighty tomes, are sealed in their rings of time.

If we could only see through to the living frenzy, life.

Lazily dissolved into brilliant canopy, the scent of new-mown grass takes me back to happy, humid, summer days, when the trees first whispered to me and I had time to listen.