That’s what I hope my book is like. It has been sent out, and lives apart from me, standing now on its own newborn legs, uprooted from the coir of memory. Pieces of my life, stitched together with words, pulsating with meaning, and bursting with hope, etched into the living tissue of its progenitor, became pages of flesh made from crushed pulp, hammered into a parchment we can touch with lingering fingers, and hold and fondle with our eyes. A book must be as malleable, and palpable to be born whole, and translated into a new life. It is really gone from me, and lives in a distant place, separated into something we call a shared existence.
It’s been a difficult birth: the labor oozing pain that stabbed the heart, the muscle strain that stretched the soul’s opening, the mind unlocking an ever-widening embrace to catch the cry and the song.
Why be like a tree? Trees are meant to bear fruit, reach for the sun, grow upward and outward, while bearing downward, running its roots deeper into veins of flowing water, to be nourished, and to nourish, to bend and bow underneath the force of seasons, to build a shelter for the littlest pilgrims singing, chattering, groping along on their journey.
The song of my redemption has been recorded for posterity, and in eternity. For the Redeemed of the Lord must say so, must come with singing into Zion, and be heard.
May it be like a tree, planted by rivers of living waters, whose leaves will not wither, bearing fruit in every season, whether late or early, and who will prosper everything it touches.
A prayer from Psalm One