oak

7 04 2010

She’s sitting in a park, thinking to herself.  I could be a tree.  Hmm…  What kind of tree would I be?  Cherry tree, with the pretty pink flowers?  People would come from miles to see me blossom each spring.  Nah.  I’d be an oak.  Strong.  I could be an oak.  I could be a tree.

———-

You’re not so different from a tree.

Like trees, people have roots.  They arrive on this Earth in a certain spot, and roots are formed.  The longer you stay in a spot, the deeper your roots go.  At the same time, your branches spread upward and outward.  Branches are the roots of your sky.  Your roots want to touch the deepest bottom.  Your branches want to touch the deepest top.

Like trees, people have leaves.  Your leaves are your things;  Your loved ones and situations and happiness and woe and misery and joy.  Seasons change, you lose your leaves, your branches are bare.  Don’t worry, tree;  It’s just the cycle of things.  Your branches will be full with and empty of.  Leaves come and go.  Your branches are always there, tree.

Tree, take the dirty air the world gives you and hold it inside you.  Process it.  Work it over, run it through your branches, your leaves, your roots.  Hold it until it’s changed into something good and life-giving.  Do not put it back into the world until you’ve made it better than what you started with, tree.  Person.

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3 responses

7 04 2010
Matt Wallace

This may be the first time I’ve been called a tree without desperately wanting to donkey punch a hippie with brass knuckles. Well done.

8 04 2010
bri

Thanks, although admittedly, I did feel a bit hippie-ish writing it.

8 04 2010
Wendryn

I second Matt’s comment. I like this.

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