When I’m with the trees, they never make me feel inadequate.
Some of them have been there, bearing witness to all my joys and hurts, for over a decade. We’ve grown together.
They remind me that seasons change and that what I thought was dead is sometimes resurrected.
They teach me about weathering storms and how a tough exterior forcefully pulled off by strong winds reveals a smooth, vulnerable interior underneath.
They remind me to look up, to remember my place in things, while remaining firmly rooted to the ground.
They reward me with their intimate secrets when I take the time to gaze in wonder, to lean in with curiosity, to reach out to touch the bark and inhale the scent of their blossoms in spring, and listen to the music of the wind in the leaves. It sounds just like waves crashing in the ocean.
They invite me to remember long-past moments of quiet— gazing up at the branches overhead when I was a child, lying by the pool in the summertime.
I remember jumping into piles of their leaves in the fall and decorating their fragrant branches in winter.
That was long ago, before I knew to feel inadequate.
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