Dear Friend, 

I hope this letter finds you. Well-

As unlikely as that seems, I know it will. 

You are on my mind today, more than usual, but not really more than usual. 

On this, the first day of spring, Mother Nature decided to present us with a little bit of warmth, and a mostly clear sky.  

I decided it was the day for my first reconnaissance ride of the season. To see if it was happening yet. Is it happening yet? 

So, I drove to my favorite tree. You know the one. The really old one, near the hot dog truck at the park entrance. The weeping umbrella shaped one, with the twisted gnarly trunk. I know you know it.

There are no blossoms yet. None that I could see today. But I sat down underneath its branches anyway. And I put pen to paper. To write this letter. 

And now I am sitting here, on the exposed roots, looking up through the dark hypnotic maze of branches. They have no buds. They have a few buds. They are coated in ice. They are in full bloom. I can see all versions of the tree simultaneously. 

I am sitting here now. And I am also driving by on a rainy day in 1997. I am also skipping circles around the tree, wearing an Easter dress in 1976. I am walking past, dragging on a cigarette, in 1983. I am holding my baby out on a limb in 2001. I am all versions of myself, under this tree, simultaneously. 

And if you were sitting here with me, I would tell you how this makes me feel. 

I would tell you that I know there is no beginning and there is no end. That there are no concrete, fixed moments. That time does not ever stand still, and even place is immaterial. 

If you were sitting here, I would tell you about quidditas, brahman, and tathata. 

I would try to explain the suchness of it all. To put it into words when there really are no words. 

I would hold your hand, and stare up through the branches, and we would feel it. We would feel it all, deep down. The essence of it all.

I feel it deep down right now. I feel it in all of the versions of me, across all time and space.

And if you were sitting here with me I would tell you. It is happening. It is always happening. The flowers are here. They are always here. And they are always not here. 

Like me. Like you. Always here. Always not here. 

We are here and not here, today, more than usual. But not really any more than usual.

I will tear this page from the notebook now, and bury it beneath the tree. 

I hope you find this letter. 

Well, I know you will.

xo