tree of life
This is my favorite tree. Actually, I think of it as my tree, though it is nowhere near to being mine, it being some 30 miles away and all.
Still, I have claimed it, at least in my heart. It stands in the middle of a farm field. I’ve always wondered how that comes to be, one lone tree left guarding all those seedlings, offering the best perch for miles around.
I’ve never gone to sit beneath this tree, though I would like to. I’m fairly certain the farmer wouldn’t appreciate me trampling his crop, and so I resist.
But I sit there in my mind, enjoying its shade and wondering how it came to have that finger pointing straight for the sky. Secretly, I’m glad I don’t know. Secretly, I know it means my tree is a survivor. It’s much larger than it appears to be in this picture, and I want to know the stories of the years that formed this anchored, ancient witness. Stories of hope and disaster, good years and bad years, floods and drought. I get the sense that if ever there was a tree that needed hugging, it is this tree.
I bet it remembers every Spring.
Scarred but not broken. Standing tall while bending with the wind. Rooted in one place as time marches on.
Yes, this is my tree.
I’ve got this quilt and this basket and this book, and if you squint a little, you can see me there, whiling away the afternoon.