Small.

This past December, I visited my friends, Nichole and Daniel, in California between Christmas and New Year. They took me to Sequoia National Forest to see the trees. And while you might not think there is anything truly noteworthy about trees on a mountain, it's taken me nearly four months to put it into words.

We spend a lot of time worrying about things we can't control, things that feel overwhelming. We spend a lot of time rushing around, making mountains out of molehills. We spend a lot of time focused on self, but not really looking inward, not really seeing ourselves. Our priorities often get skewed. Our thoughts often get sidetracked. We feel like these moments we live in are enormous and pivotal, and we whirl through our days, not taking the time to see more than the blur rushing past.

Here in this forest, even with many people present, it is hushed. There is a stillness. And with the stillness, comes peace. Because when you stand at the base of these giants, gazing up and up...and up even more, you can't stop the quiet gasp of awe. It happened to me each time I stopped and looked heavenward, to the faraway tops of trees that seemed to touch the sky. I took hundreds of photos, attempting to capture the feeling, but I've come to believe it just isn't possible, because a photo, no matter how large you make it, is never going to duplicate the largeness, and it is in the largeness that the secret lies. Even the trees who have fallen, victim to time and the elements, still tower over heads, the trunk bases and roots with wide circumference, long trunks stretching away into the woods for hundreds of feet.

We started out on the General Sherman Trail.  General Sherman is the largest volume living tree on Earth. That statement means very little in print, mostly because I just don't believe it is possible to imagine the reality without standing beneath it. What gave me even more pause, though, was coming to the realization that I was standing in the shadow of a tree that was already between 300 and 700 years old when Christ was born, and still thriving. It humbled me. I keep trying to elaborate on it, but the truth is as simple and pure as that. It humbled me.

We continued wandering among these regal giants along the Congress Trail. There is no racing among the sequoias. The altitude steals your breath, forces a slower, more deliberate pace.

So I walked, taking it all in. Marveling as I passed beneath a fallen tree. Stopping to enjoy a handful of snow. Taking in the sight of The Congress and The Senate. Standing solitary or in dignified clusters, these trees are magnificent and astoundingly beautiful.

Most poignant for me were the trees scarred by fires. The trunks are blackened, some with spaces burned clear through, large enough for a man to pass through with ease. They stand tall, strong, defying the fury of fires. Fires which ravage nearly everything. And yet these trees, they survive. They go on as if it didn't happen, more of their mass unaffected and alive than the parts that bear evidence, even when those very parts dwarf a grown person. What's more, these trees *need* the fires. Without them, they would eventually cease to exist. Only the heat of the fires is capable of opening the cones, releasing the tiny seeds from which these giants grow. It's a lot to ponder. Not being consumed by the events assumed to devour you. Holding yourself proud, head held high, even as the scars show what's been endured. Seeing that being held to ferocious heat can be the key to growth and new life, that sometimes that is the only way these may come about.

So many lessons lie among these rich, red trunks, their green branches a serene canopy overhead. Lessons to be learned in the hushed stillness, surrounded by important reminders of how fleeting our lives, what specks we are within the scope of a much grander world, spanning space and time.

There is much to be gained from feeling small.