We went to the mall today and there I saw the first cherry blossoms of the year. The tree was spindly, and surrounded by stone. It was a cloudy day in Bellevue, but still a few shadows added delicacy. Suddenly I remembered Spring. This little tree, unaware of dates and portents, of being surrounded by unyielding schedules, bloomed right on time. It’s skinny branch has a small voice. It isn’t in the midst of a forest or a field but across from a parking lot. All around the tall buildings of downtown Bellevue tower to fill the sky and crowds shop through the artificial beauty of man. But this little tree bloomed first and with all it’s inner joy, resulting in just a few sparse blossoms. It was enough for me. I was touched by beauty.
Perhaps my own voice is buried among the noisier more strident writers. The big five publishers aren’t asking for my little stories. I’m in the back lot, and overwhelmed enough that my offerings are few. But I love to write and it gives me joy. I hope I produce something beautiful. Mostly I hope one small person will come along and see my blossoms and be touched.