When I’m under the trees, I feel whole. Padding silently in dappled shade, breathing in fresh oxygen, somehow protected by these tall beings, still and sonorous, myself just a tiny blink in long, long lives.
When I want to cry and hide away, I go to the trees. I speak to them in silence, an understanding on a different plane, unspoken yet deeper than words could say. On quiet days when there is no hint of a breeze, they stand, waiting, and I wander beneath them, old leaves under my feet, different beings sharing space and time.
Wild winds rip through branches and I dart with heart beating, the release of energy, strong limbs tossed in invisible currents ripping through the air; those safe places suddenly gathering danger, flipping in an instant. Arms that once sheltered can crack and break and fall. The once benevolent being roars and screams in the storm and I watch, wild-eyed and ragged breath.
Sometimes I need wild moors, desolate and empty. Sometimes I need water, waves and shoreline. But the trees are my peace place, my protective place. Seasons change but they’re still the same. I like that.
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