The Dreamy Boy

When I was a little boy I loved to daydream. In those days, with no internet, no television, and slow hot afternoons when time itself seemed like it wanted to rest under the shade of a tree, my attention would be a little butterfly flitting languorously from flower to flower, bush to bush. The trees of my youth were majestic beings that grew so much taller than me, and covered so much more width than I could. Their trunks and branches were strong like the limbs of elephants, and they reached so far into the sky. So much happened in and around trees - little ants climbing up and down, birds of all kinds temporarily stopping for rest, spiders, insects, fungi, creepers, monkeys, snakes. Trees were where my mind went to rest and to get refreshed before I grew up and became so full of myself, I lost the vastness that contained me and everything else in it.

Every little thing is a world in itself

Now, that I am older, and having chased the so called "important" things in life, and gone through the gauntlet of lack of worth, sense of failure, hopelessness, depression, anger, shame, guilt, and more... I find myself returning to that sense of awe about all of it, my life itself having become a tree where so much has happened and come and gone, my limbs and body reaching out into the background of existence, resting places for all that passes through them.