What goes up must come down. I laughed when I thought of that. Because the way down lacked any attractiveness compared to the sense of adventure when I started up the tree and pile of brush. I dare not say how high I went. My age allegedly begs for restraint. There is a shimmering word in our language that attempts to describe the realization that you might not know it could be your last time. I reached the pile of brush and the trees jamming up from it because I had seen a hawk flying low upon the creek bed. At the end of its run, it elegantly rose up through the canopy and disappeared. It was my guess that it had a perch somewhere nearby and above. I followed the narrowing and disappearing dirt path until it was no longer. I pushed through the brambles and vines to reach the most likely tree that would serve as a candidate for ascension. Though I sometimes regret being barefoot, I also miss the connection with the dirt, rocks and water when I choose to protect my faith. I was barefoot today.  I leaned against the tree trunk and waited. Watching the birds and squirrels. A shadow went above me and I could hear the woosh of wings. And the bird of prey sat across from me, adjusting its wings and feathers while keeping an eye on me. I slowly reached for my phone in my front left pocket. Just as much to avoid dropping my phone or hurling myself from the exposed safety of the tree trunk. The moment was enough but I felt compelled to take a picture. For just a moment, the bird and I were at the same level. I was a little bit jealous that it would be able to jump, spread his wings, and skim along the cold water of the creek below. It would be two seconds of glorious freefall. As we all know, it’s not the fall that hurts. It’s the ending. Some people question others for their elaborate planning and effort for short bursts of pleasure. To that I would say, the best one-off moment so far this week was making an effort to see SpaceX blaze across the sky above me early one morning. Or to point out that you spend hours to shop and cook for the tastes sensation of eating that sometimes only lasts a few minutes. Or you rush for the singular goal of pleasure, when it is the journey and process that makes the sensation what it is. I managed to get out of the tree and brush. The hawk probably laughed at me, wondering why I took the long way to get out of the tree. I left him there, scanning the creek. When I looked back along the creek and realized how far I had climbed, I reminded myself that I have a picture. And that one day the digital picture would still be here, long after the memory attached to me would be gone. 

Love, X

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