Throughout my life, there have always been trees. My earliest memory is of a huge Walnut tree that lived in my Grandparents backyard. There was a large cement sink next to the tree. If I moved a chair next to it, I could get up on the sink, then climb up into the tree. It was like magic. I scared my parents to death...I was three years old.
I visited my Grandparents farm every summer,and would spend most of my time up in an Apricot tree. Old and gnarled, the branches held me tight as I feasted on warm Apricots and felt safe and nourished. I was ten years old.
When I was a bit older, I lived in the Northern California mountians with my Mom and crappy Step-Dad. Needless to say, I had a great desire to escape, but no place to go. Except up in a tree, where I had built a fort. I could stay there, feel myself in my skin, write stories, read books, and hide from the ugliness of it all. Again, held by a tree. I was thirteen years old.Now I am a grown woman, I suppose. It has only been recently, in my "middle age" that I re-member my connection to these living saints, these "wise ones of the bark". The way that they choose to hold, to stay, to dig deep and to just stand....I am remineded of the simplicity of it all. Stand in your truth. Be flexible enough to weather storms. Ground in your mother, source of all wisdom. Share your being with wind, birds, insects, moss. Be. It is enough to just Be.
