Silence, like a frail child lacking love, needs to be nurtured. A young oak tree, chest high, whispers a thank you to the soil, to the sun and the water. The air is moving, but far too softly to make a sound. I raise my face to the sunlight, thinking, “I have love in my life. I offer my thanks.” Something moves in the old leaf pile, swift and sudden, but I cannot see what it is.
My hair is turning white, starting at the bottom and slowly working its way up. Baldness is creeping in as well, starting at the top and working its way down. My head needs a traffic signal to keep some terrible accident at bay. Isn’t life funny? Sometimes I think I can hear the laughter from the studio audience.