(from the memoir i'm working on...)
There is a tree in my backyard. Its branches bend so low I can reach my arms around them and walk my feet up the trunk. I climb high enough to feel the rush of fear, to feel the breeze on my face, my hair whipping and turning like the leaves dancing around me. Up in the tree I am silent. I am still, (unlike when I am in the supermarket with my mother where I run up and down the aisles knocking cereal boxes off of the shelves and get yelled at by the store manager). In the stillness I hear another part of me, the quiet one, and I hear the birds, the grasses, the branches bending and creaking. I smell the warm summer air, fresh cut lawns, and flowers on the wind. I breathe it all into my fingers and toes. Up in the tree I watch the clouds, the way they change, the way the whole sky becomes a movie if you only take the time to see it. If I knew anything about God, it had something to do with being in a tree.
Very poetic prose - there should be a word for that (prosetic)
ReplyDeleteTree climbing is more important for people with no mountains - one needs to climb somewhere high enough to look down at the earth and buildings don't foster the proper mood for contemplation. It's a skill that should definitely be passed on to our children and that we should continue to practice as long as we are physically able.
thanks bob. i agree; an attempt to touch the divine, like getting to the mountaintop.
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