Trees
Here's the train of thought that led me to my story about trees:
Trying to fall asleep last night, contemplating the familiar sick little feeling of unease in my belly that's making my heart race.
Thinking about how often I've felt it in my life.
The words "The decision branches I'm taking aren't leading to my long term happiness."
Spending a good amount of processing time thinking about what decision branches mean, and how the choices we make create these branching patterns.
Really enjoying this thought process.
Thinking about pulling back into my trunk, since the branch analogy naturally leads to picturing myself as a tree.
Trying to imagine pulling my sap back in to my core, and choosing to create another set of decision branches instead of wasting resources on already created patterns.
Thinking about what kind of tree I want to be.
Definitely not an Aspen. I hate those trees.
An Oak. Or a Maple. Or a giant, gnarly old Beech.
No, a Maple. Or an Oak.
Hmm. Why?
Oh, that's right. I grew up with an oak and a maple in the front yard of the farm house. I passed them every single day of my life for almost 20 years. I spent a lot of time under them, looking up.
Mmmm. I loved that Maple tree. The Oak tree was kind of creepy, though.
Wait, why was the Oak tree creepy? I loved that tree.
No I didn't. That tree made me nervous. It had been hit by lightening years before we moved in, and it was blackened and gnarled all along one side. It looked angry, and it felt angry. I spent much more time under the Maple than the Oak. The Maple was beautiful, and peaceful, and complacent in it's perfection.
Huh. I was a shallow little shit, wasn't I? Why did imperfection make me so nervous? I hated to imagine the pain the Oak was in, so I avoided it, called it angry, and let myself feel safe under the perfection of the Maple.
But you know what? I remember not respecting that Maple. I anthropomorphized the shit out of every single thing in my childhood, those trees especially. And while I loved the Maple for her beauty, I didn't respect her. Not the way I respected the Oak. Her blackened, broken branches clawed at the sky, as if to punish it for bringing the lightening that hurt her. And while half of her was lifeless, the other half was brilliant with life, especially in the Fall. She wasn't nearly as pretty as the Maple, but I recognized and respected her strength, even in my youth.
Man. I still don't want to be a lightening struck Oak. I'm still shallow.
But I think I could handle it these days. I think I could probably respect my own strength, flip off the universe with my damage, and revel in leftover beauty.
I don't want to be that Maple. I don't want to be complacent and smug, never having experienced the kind of pain that makes you die or sit up and scream your defiance at the sky.
I don't know what kind of tree I want to be now. But I do know that I want to be massive. I want my decision branches to reach out for miles around, complex and sturdy. Some will be dead, most will be healthy and thriving, constantly creating new opportunities to experience.
And when I die, I want to create a huge gap where I fall, letting light in to the floor, providing sustenance for however many little seedlings I can.
Trying to fall asleep last night, contemplating the familiar sick little feeling of unease in my belly that's making my heart race.
Thinking about how often I've felt it in my life.
The words "The decision branches I'm taking aren't leading to my long term happiness."
Spending a good amount of processing time thinking about what decision branches mean, and how the choices we make create these branching patterns.
Really enjoying this thought process.
Thinking about pulling back into my trunk, since the branch analogy naturally leads to picturing myself as a tree.
Trying to imagine pulling my sap back in to my core, and choosing to create another set of decision branches instead of wasting resources on already created patterns.
Thinking about what kind of tree I want to be.
Definitely not an Aspen. I hate those trees.
An Oak. Or a Maple. Or a giant, gnarly old Beech.
No, a Maple. Or an Oak.
Hmm. Why?
Oh, that's right. I grew up with an oak and a maple in the front yard of the farm house. I passed them every single day of my life for almost 20 years. I spent a lot of time under them, looking up.
Mmmm. I loved that Maple tree. The Oak tree was kind of creepy, though.
Wait, why was the Oak tree creepy? I loved that tree.
No I didn't. That tree made me nervous. It had been hit by lightening years before we moved in, and it was blackened and gnarled all along one side. It looked angry, and it felt angry. I spent much more time under the Maple than the Oak. The Maple was beautiful, and peaceful, and complacent in it's perfection.
Huh. I was a shallow little shit, wasn't I? Why did imperfection make me so nervous? I hated to imagine the pain the Oak was in, so I avoided it, called it angry, and let myself feel safe under the perfection of the Maple.
But you know what? I remember not respecting that Maple. I anthropomorphized the shit out of every single thing in my childhood, those trees especially. And while I loved the Maple for her beauty, I didn't respect her. Not the way I respected the Oak. Her blackened, broken branches clawed at the sky, as if to punish it for bringing the lightening that hurt her. And while half of her was lifeless, the other half was brilliant with life, especially in the Fall. She wasn't nearly as pretty as the Maple, but I recognized and respected her strength, even in my youth.
Man. I still don't want to be a lightening struck Oak. I'm still shallow.
But I think I could handle it these days. I think I could probably respect my own strength, flip off the universe with my damage, and revel in leftover beauty.
I don't want to be that Maple. I don't want to be complacent and smug, never having experienced the kind of pain that makes you die or sit up and scream your defiance at the sky.
I don't know what kind of tree I want to be now. But I do know that I want to be massive. I want my decision branches to reach out for miles around, complex and sturdy. Some will be dead, most will be healthy and thriving, constantly creating new opportunities to experience.
And when I die, I want to create a huge gap where I fall, letting light in to the floor, providing sustenance for however many little seedlings I can.
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