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Early in the morning, I climbed to the top of the hill behind their property. It was heavily overgrown, though most of the trees were only as thick as a sturdy thigh. A strangle-vine of some sort had invaded the woods, and the trees were spiraled by these heavy vines, which had already killed many of the trees.
I was a basket-maker at the time, and I itched to pull down those strangling vines and see if I could weave baskets with them, creating something useful from this pernicious invader. But I didn't. Instead, I continued to climb to the top of the hill. No one else was awake yet, but I heard a woodpecker pecking out his breakfast from one of the dying trees.
When I reached the top, I saw before me a broad expanse of meadow, part of a farm owned by a nunnery. I was sure the nuns wouldn't mind if I stood on their land while I sang. Only the birds heard me as I sang a full-throated greeting to the sun, which was rising on the other side of the meadow.
Finally I turned to retrace my steps down the overgrown hill. Halfway down I noticed (it took me this long to notice) that at the tip of each needle on each evergreen was a drop of water. The sun illuminated these drops, making a diamond of each one. As I picked my way carefully down the unclear path, ridged with tree roots, I was surrounded by diamond-studded trees.
No one saw this but me.
I say that with some pride. But let me turn it around. It is not unusual, surely, for dew or a light rain to deposit a drop of water on an evergreen needle. It must happen all the time. And it is not unusual, surely, for the sun to hit those drops and transform them to diamonds. So the question is this: if such a miracle happens all the time, in overgrown woods and in evergreen stands in parks—if this happens on a regular basis—then why had I never seen it before? And why have I never seen it since?
What else am I not noticing? Perhaps it's time to open my eyes.
Copyright 2008 Ann Tudor
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