A few years ago, while hiking through the Mount Ascutney Mountains in Vermont, I found myself absolutely mesmerized by the stunning beauty of the deciduous pine forest. In particular, my eyes were being pulled towards the pinecones. Kind of like a magnet, I was attracted to the pinecones.
They densely garnished the tall pines. They came from all sizes, from two inches, up to seven, and perhaps more. They were everywhere, on the floor, on the branches. And the hues changed from light, pale green, to a royal forest green, to a hazel, to dark brown.
As I was walking, I kicked one. It was a good five inches tall, and about four inches wide at the base, and dark brown. I picked it up, I threw it in my backpack, and I forgot about it.
A couple days ago, which has now been three years, I found it. I took it. I put it out on the outdoor flower plant stand, and under the open sky, its arms were wide open. The pinecone has over a hundred of these little petals, and he looked like a sentry, standing tall, with open arms, saluting the flag.
That evening, a light rainfall graced the garden, and the next morning I noticed that the pinecone had changed.
He was soaking wet, and every arm and petal had been tightly closed. He no longer held his arms open. And I thought to myself, “wait a minute, did someone place the pinecone, because he’s changed?” But I knew better, so I left him out, and four days later, in direct sunlight, his arms opened up again, and he was wide open, greeting the world.
It was so amazing that this pinecone, in my mind, returned from the dead.
That’s why I call this pinecone Lazarus.