Child of the Forest.

Since I can remember, trees have always been my source of strength.

Their roots, like the fingers of a child digging through fresh garden soil in search of slimy, wiggly worms. Their yellow-green leaves cupped like hands ready for communion, an eager palm ready to receive salvation’s greatest promise. Their branches spread wide with little predictability, like the legs of a spider moving meticulously through time and space creating a wild masterpiece against the backdrop of blue sky. The texture of their bark always surprises me, rough and rigid, but never without a story.

Trees are my strength, my bedrock against the storm of life.

I remember leaning against a magnolia tree, turning my white Sunday dress into my mother’s worst nightmare the day I got confirmed for church. The second the camera flashed, I blew an enormous bubble from my one-hour-too-many strawberry flavored gum, and I knew the tree was laughing with me.

I remember the bright, golden-sun yellow tree that leaned over our street in my neighborhood, always protecting, always saying hello to the walkers, the dogs, and especially the children. I was trapped in a love war with that tree. No matter what happened, I couldn’t go a day in fall without staring at her ever-evolving color and smiling.

The year of the tornado was the year we lost that tree.
I will never forget her.

I remember the reckless trees of Baton Rouge with branches like I had never laid eyes on before. My brothers wanted the gumbo, the shrimp, and everything else on those Louisiana trips to see Granny.

All I wanted were the trees.

And the Redwood beauties of my year away in Northern California. I swear they whispered secrets to me on my long and windy runs up those rainy, mossy mountains.

Whispers like,

“I love you.”

“Come this way.”

“You are the child of the forest.”

Trees are my strength, my forever friends.

Always steady, always kind.