I remember trees. Their smell, their feel, their winding, branching, reach. Some I remember as clearly as any fond memory.
One cedar from my earliest years rises up in my fibers every time I brush past a fragrant cedar branch or run my hand over its furry twisting bark. I recall hanging, lounging, climbing and curving into its branches, hiding among the greens, pushing to the top, clearing a spot on the ground near its base, loving its width, soaking up its aroma, choosing its protection.
I’ve known whimsical trees with shapes that send me into hysterics. I know a tree that if I didn’t know better was proportioned to give birth at any moment(complete with the propensity to nurse if it came to that), but the days press on year after year and it only grows in girth.
There is a poignant tree rooted next to our downstairs living room window that starts as one truck, then gracefully divides into two twisting lovers by the time it gets to our upstairs window. I have painted this tree in 15 different ways, but unsatisfyingly so. . .never really capturing the miracle of it.
I’m ok with that.
Knowing, experiencing, enjoying, remembering. . . this is good.