I was always climbing. I would climb tall trees and hang out in their upper branches, snuggled in among the leaves, watching the world go by below; hidden in my sevret place in the treetops. I climbed small trees and nestled in between the speading curves of their trunks.
Perhaps they assumed they got the best of me when I broke my arm at age 7. But really, I knew it was not the plum tree at fault, it was the silly bee who decided he wanted the same plum I wanted. and the fault of the ground...for meeting me at the wrong angle. The fault was not on the tree.
I used to have dreams that I lived in a tree. Not a tree house, but actually IN the tree. the huge wide trunk was my door, and once opened, it led me down a flight of stairs and into the earth, where the roots wound around and formed a bed for me.
Trees are magical to me. breathing, loving entities.
It's really no wonder that one of my favourite books is Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree. it makes me weep a little every time I read it.
|Me + T|