A chill in the air, the day’s light fading, my streamers flew as I pedaled frantically down the path that leads to my secret alcove where the Hand of God Tree waits for me. I always hold my breath a second as I turn the corner, worrying that one day when I come it will be gone, succumbed to a storm or age or the hands of harm.
I think each time I go back there again that I will linger and pour out my fears about our increasingly batsh*t crazy world and unanswered questions about where you need me now, God, but none of that happens. I just pause for one suspended moment in time. I notice the knuckles on the fingers of the tree and the ever-changing level of the water and the way the sometimes-there sometimes-not sand bar provides a quiet place to stand beneath the river bank and watch the geese and otters and an occasional river rat. And then off I go again, back on the bike.