Once I was a tree


Some might say there’s no mystery to it, the roots of a tree somehow gathering the spirit as well as the nourishment of re-awakening life from the soil.

Some might say there’s no mystery to it, how the warming rays of the morning sun draw the sap up through the trunk and out into the branches; no mystery about how leaf-buds begin to stir in anticipation. How do they know it’s not just a dream in the midst of winter’s long, cold sleep?

Some might also say there’s no mystery to it, how the maples drink deep again at long last.

I don’t doubt there are those who know full well the natural science of it, botanists with letters behind their names signifying and celebrating the level of their hard-earned learning.

I hope their knowledge has made the life-force rising up through the trees all the more wonderful, and miraculous for them. It should. Otherwise, why do we study anything to do with the natural world we are part of if it doesn’t take us there?


Late winter in the Hope Bay Forest, in Hope Ness

I am just a man, and not a particularly learned one. But I would count myself blessed to be a child again, to have the opportunity to wake up to the rising sun every morning, and look out across the nearby field where that tall, majestic Elm I remember so well stood guard. I see it now still in my mind’s eye, rising tall and straight to an astonishing height, then spreading its branches in a glorious, fountain-like celebration of life.

That’s my paradise.

It is the fabric of my being, and I would be there again, in a heartbeat.

Once, I was a tree, somewhere, someplace, a long time ago, of that I’m sure.


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