Broken Bough, Broken Vow

Last spring on a walk in Cloverdale I came across a broken bough, blossoms still fresh, across the road. I made several photographs, a little puzzled. Why record an act of violence, with little beauty to explain itself--not the heaping of clouds before a storm nor the ravages of flood that brush reflection across a field, but an act of blatant destruction--a smashed and broken bough?

Today, as I consider a broken vow, the photograph comes to mind. The considerations that evoked the vow still blossom. When I say "I vow...," to whom am I speaking? And when I break that vow, who is listening? How far can a bough, or a vow, bend before the breaking? If I add time as an element of change, when did the breakage begin?

I'm glad I've kept the photograph. Today, it shows me where I am. The vow was a promise to myself, to a way of health and healing. I didn't hear it break. No other was involved. For days my mind did not acknowledge the first crack nor the split nor the damage done. Today, I make the vow again, fresh as a spring blossom. I begin again to follow the path on which it led me.

Photograph by Luna Zeffer