I Met a Tree Today

Not in a forest.
Not on a hike.
Just… at a brand-new playground.

My kids ran ahead, chasing lightness.
And I lingered, chasing a breath.

Then I felt it... I looked up...There it was!

A towering tree, ancient and magnificent, like a giant fennel stretching into the sky, Its limbs reached outward like open arms.

Some of its limbs had been cut back, pruned, reshaped and reduced, to make room for the playground, perhaps.
And yet…

It stood self-assured, grounded, quietly powerful.
It was not trying to be magnificent, it just was.
Still reaching. Still growing. Still seeking light. Humbly, patiently and lovely,
Without fandare.

And I paused.

And my heart… turned, clenched, and fell to the ground.
Struck by the immense greatness in front of me.
Not loud. Not lofty. But undeniable.


And I thought:

We’re so quick to see cuts as setbacks.
Pruning as loss.
Reduction as decline.

But what if those scars are not the end, but an invitation.
What if this is what nature has been trying to teach us all along?

Not just how to grow…
But how to respond to what’s taken.
How to absorb the vitality that remains.
How to reach for light with what is left,
Not with despair, but with deep instinct.

Maybe real strength is never about Becoming,
it is about Being.

This is what Crescendo is actually about.
In music, crescendo is not an explosion,
It's a gradual swell — in volume, in intensity, in prescence.
An unfolding,
A journey,
The Art of rising slowly, with what we are given, and what remains.


Where in your life have you mistaken pruning for failure?
What would it mean to grow in a new direction — quietly, honestly, confidently, with what’s left?

Wounded and Thriving.

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