Surrender is not wet noodle. It is not sinking, nor is it giving up.
Surrender is to be a leaf, trusting and willing to give the most to your existence, no matter the season. Patiently waiting for your bud to break in spring, unfurling slowly and carefully as the days lengthen, blooming ripe and green for the dog days of summer, and allowing your chlorophyll stores to wane as your colors change, fade, and you furl again, finally falling to the ground. The leaf does not fear its slow starvation in autumn nor dread its departure from its mother tree. To surrender is to patiently endure metamorphosis - to welcome it. At no point does the leaf give up, for it knows its destiny is to be exactly as it is in each season, in whatever form the wind and sun and water wish for it. Leaves trust their destiny, and this is the meaning of surrender. To surrender in strength is to know that full blooms wilt and fade, then dessicate and drop, stomped to dust by the soles of wandering hikers, torn to shreds by the toenails of raccoons and finally, milled to fine flour by the appendages of insects to nourish the buds for next year. To surrender in strength means to believe that each stage has a meaning, to trust that every circle does indeed return to its beginning.
