March 26, 2021
In the spring in California, the trees bloom slowly, all at different rates. The Japanese maples are already fully leafed-out in their red or green elegance, while the crepe myrtles look positively dead. The ornamental pear tree looks like it’s holding snowballs made of petals. But the sycamores are bare branched, as if they’re still expecting one more winter frost.
Sometimes it’s easy to feel like we’re behind—like someone else is farther along than we are. But none of that is true, I remember, when I look at the trees all doing what they do, quietly, assuredly, all at their own pace.
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