|The view from my senior classroom.|
I can weave tales about sunsets - those I have basked in, and those that are forever lost to me. I can incise an aged oak with the moon and the stars, carve them so deep they would seem to reach out from the heartwood itself. I can stack river stones on top of each other, then leave them in their peace, or perhaps ring callous rocks together in defense of a sapling, and trust them to weather the years. I can isolate shapes from the cloud banks of the wide cerulean sky, and tint them salmon, or line them silver, before leaving.
I can sing the familiar and gentle refrains of serenity, of bliss, but even that has become arduous, mere echoes lost in deep canyons and damp caves. I cannot now sing like I used to. I can only croak throatily and warble hoarsely. My voice has to rest. The time is come for this yew tree to grow - even if it means donning a cloak of darker, rougher bark.
When hymns fail, then it is time to speak. When subtlety is not enough, then bluntness must be learned. When the vantage is tiring, seek greater heights. When you tire of shadowing what will never come your way, stop. Know when Life bids you to change.