I’ve been called a tree hugger. It’s true. I once
hugged a tree. It's not what you think.
It was not out of love but desperation. Something happened that I'd had a hard time, at the time, dealing with. I'd run out into the night, and there was this tree - I put my arms around it. It seemed to hear me.
That memory tumbled out this morning after reading Paul Martin’s
wonderful post
of two days ago on trees. He writes some of the best stories and essays!!! - and his reflections and ruminations never fail to
delight and inspire me. Or jog a memory in resonance.
Paul describes a scene where he felt as if the trees were whispering to him, calling
his name, "telling me . . . maybe I needed to break away. Maybe I needed to be elsewhere, to go off and be bold and courageous."
He seems to have had a whole chorus of them calling out to (and looking out for)
him. The way 'my' tree did for me.
How the trees speak to us - and we to them.
How the trees speak to us - and we to them.
