In the holographic cosmos, all of life is right here, now – past, present, future.
Growth rings mark time and times passing, showing each years face unique for those who stoop low to look close and slow and sweetly at the clues.
Each one anew – some bold, marked by strong clear lines – a good year, a growth year – full of sunlight and water and seeds blown along brother wind, sap pulled along tiny pipelines by sister moon; all of this held in our slow spinning home from where we see the stars and stillness and void from our pygmy’s eye.
Others faint and blurred as though He looked away from his work that year, this cosmic sandplay lost awhile in creationist thoughts of other stars, of matters black and gravitationally mysterious, Hidden between the lines of what we might measure.
And radially, piercing through the timelines, the medullary ray – the thread of meaning; a golden note running straight from hidden source to waney edge, like the honesty in a friend that tells you hard truths with love or the songs in nature that remind you to remember that all this,
and is glorious.