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Sep. 11th, 2005 @ 02:18 pm Rowan
On the mountain near here, in a cleft in the rock, grows a rowan. The roots are shallow, for little soil settles in the crags and what little there is is often washed away by rains. The sustenance for the slender tree is as slight as a sailor's hope, but little can accomplish much.

No doubt a bird lifted the seed to that place. Perhaps the sweet spring rain watered the seed and the clear mountain sun warmed it and some soft breeze sighed, "Flourish!" and the little seed obeyed. The tree grew strong, though shallow-rooted, trusting the words of Yavanna, which were whispered to the first of the rowans, believing in those words as if it felt the touch of her hand. Perhaps it does.

When I look at that tree, it makes me feel that anything is possible. What need have I for deep roots or some assurance for the coming days? It is enough to grow, enough to strive. What rowan ever asks if the end will be good? What tree looks for any pledge of rich soil or tomorrow's rain? These things are sent or not sent, but only the growing tree can enjoy them when they come. Therefore I will cast my branches into the sky and accept the gifts that are bestowed by the kindly powers and I will not ask if my place in the world is safe, or if my roots will be strong. I will believe in the strength of sunlight and hold fast to what ground I am given.

Am I more exiled than that tree, lifted here by wings with which it could not reason? Berries ripen on that tree, and who can say where the birds will bear the fruit? In the same way, the deeds of my life may bear fruit I cannot see, and far away, something may flourish that I never imagined, because I believed in the sunlight and trusted that I would find sustenance amidst the rocks.
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