Not far from where we live there is a copse of old trees, some almost hollowed out with decay. It’s one of my favorite places to ramble when I feel up to it and the four-footed one enjoys poking her nose in the holes and crevices.
The trees remind me of wise beings, having witnessed so much history and turmoil as well as peace and good times. On those really challenging days, if I’m up to it, I will go to these wise sentinels and pour my heart out to them. I don’t expect much from them, not in terms of answers or feedback. I do, however, feel, better after my monologue. I think the four-footed one is just thrilled to not have to hear me tell her all of these things.
I always wonder though, what have those trees really witnessed. What amazing sights have they seen? What incredible conversations have they overheard? What theories have been found and sorted within their midst and what plans have come to fruition under those gnarly limbs.
Beneath these trees is a carpet of slightly bumpy and hilly grass. It looks so soft and lush, yet it seems to cover a hardness you wouldn’t expect to find in this land. Rocks are just covered by the turf, not buried as deep as one would expect. I wonder how many others have stumbled and tripped upon them the way I have when I’m not paying attention. Surely my feet are not the only ones to lack coordination and proper placement.
I don’t share this place, not it’s exact location with anyone other than the four-footed one because there is something sacred about this space. There is something knowing and special, at least to me and I’d dread losing that simply through the act of sharing it with anyone, even Beloved. And so it is where I run to, where I hide, when I need to tear down the walls I’ve built up within myself. So I can get to the very essence of me.