I sit beneath a canopy of green trees, in a campground outside Lancaster, Pennsylvania. It’s my last day here, and for a week I have savored the experience of living beneath these trees. It’s been my private little tree house, and it’s restored my soul after a rough couple of months.
This one, directly in front of my chair, has been my faithful companion. I watch as the morning sun lights up the leaves, branch by branch. I notice the little chipmunks scurrying up and down its trunk; whether they are playing or fighting, I cannot tell.
I move on today, to another place, where they may or may not have trees as beautiful as these. I am enjoying the moment, then, as I write this, looking up at the cathedral over my head, squinting at the sun breaking through the gaps, and wishing I could stay just a little longer.
The meaning of a word — to me — is not as exact as the meaning of a color. Colors and shapes make a more definite statement than words.