How like me the trees!
In the most patient of gestures, limbs grasp for open space—up for sun, out for air, for life everywhere. Some innate wisdom—or is it sense of touch?—bids them bend, or branch.
What trees can't reach beyond they simply grow around, absorbing rock, wire or post, turning it from obstacle to part of them. Simply, inexorably, they embrace what is.
Their skin grows thick and rough and wrinkled. Cut that protective layer, though, and they bleed. For just underneath they're soft and tender. There veins flow, a constant heart pumping.
Simply, inexorably, they embrace what is.
When winter squeezes tight around them, most trees have learned not to fight it, but just be slow and quiet for a while—till life's more inviting. How like me…or at least the me I want to be.
Now, in the autumn of my life, Nature's spring reminds me, yet again, what it is I most admire in trees: No matter how old, still they grow. Budding, blooming, unfurling fresh and green—there's always a part of them celebrating new life, fresh as sapling, full of promise.
Yes, trees know something about time, something I'd do well to learn. They balance that joy of renewal with a responsibility to eternity—a time to bud and to flower; a time to deepen one's roots; a time to go to seed.
Can two beings share so much and not share affection? Could trees not know I admire them so, when I stand with them, touch them, confide in them, give them my wonder?
No matter how old,
still they grow.
Know, they must, for how generous they are in return! They let me lean on them in time of trouble, take heart in their strength, take wing on their soaring beauty. They give me their shelter and shade, their sage counsel, their worthy example.
How wise, how faithful, how generous, the trees. How well they know me, to give, always, exactly what I need. How they must, somehow, care.
How the trees like me!