Her face down low, hidden by a cascade of verdant tresses, she stands alone, solitary in her loveliness. Is her heart broken? Does she grieve for her loved ones? Or is she simply waiting, pausing, hoping for miracles from the Only One who can lift up her head?
Waiting in solitude at the water’s edge, she bows beneath the heaviness she wears like a cloak. It’s not the rushing currents that draw her, but rather the still, calm depths whose mirrored surfaces reflect back to her the serenity she craves.
Time stands still while she communes with her Maker. Deep calling to deep at the brink of despair. Yet she never falls in, never collapses. Her roots are established, thirst never conquers. Perpetually on the edge, she flourishes where the waters pool eternal.
It’s a mystery to the curious observer. Her presence is a paradox. Graceful, inspiring, from one perspective she appears jubilant, her plumage exploding—fireworks style—in stationary bursts of green. Perhaps she is misunderstood, and the impression of sadness is joy in disguise.
Nevertheless, her secrets belong to her, while her tears are kept safe in the depths at her feet.
Why are you cast down, O my inner self? And why should you moan over me and be disquieted within me? Hope in God and wait expectantly for Him, for I shall yet praise Him, my Help and my God. Psalm 91:5
At the water’s edge. She waits.
(Photo courtesy of Kahala's photostream at flickr.com)