I’m feeling terrible today. There is no sun. Everything seems flat. The weariness engendered by lack of sleep buzzes in my head. I lift my eyes and let my sight fall on a large cypress tree out there. It lives for no other reason than to live. Its branches wave at me. At me? Or is it waving to me? At me or to me, the tips of its branches are most certainly a whiter shade of pale. If I were painting them, there’d be Chinese white in the mix, definitely. The darker parts behind those tips have brown in them. The branches move, move, move, in a wind-blown dance. The buzz of weariness disappears, or at least seems less important. The movement of the cypress tips is like a stroking hand, many stroking hands in fact, each one stroking my weariness. Somewhere inside me an emotion stirs. Gratitude. Gentleness....
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