Once, standing tall was easy. But my aging structure is weakening. In most of us, cartilage shrinks, knees wear out, hips twist out of alignment and bone reaches toward bone. Knots and gnarls appear upon our trunks. Muscle turns soft. Three years ago yesterday, my back was broken in an automobile accident. Although the bones knit, at times, I must concentrate and fight the desire to bend at the waist, limp or stoop. At times it takes grit to override pain and push beyond the comfortable limits of strength. It’s easier to be dull than rise to the mental and physical effort to be alert. Some days it seems as if angels or perhaps the Holy Spirit Himself (the white in the painting) pushes, upholds and lightens my attempts to remain erect, keep going and stand tall.
The green suggests a life force beyond my own. It nurtures my connections to the green world beyond my window and reminds me of youthful longings to see, hear and smell the sights and sounds of other lands. This tree reminds me of the lovely cone shaped cypress trees I’ve seen in films of Greece and Italy; the duller colors suggest the improbability of ever seeing them in person, and the truer blues of the dignity of standing tall—in the here and now.
Sometimes keeping “vision” a la Proverbs 29:18 boils down to the the smallest personal choices of the moment.
Where there is no vision, the people perish: but he that keeps the law happy is he . . .
My current personal stand-tall version is —
She that can keep faith, hope, and endurance alive—and exercise like she should— more upright and happier is she . . .
