People are trees, too

I love trees. I truly love them. I love looking at pictures of them. I love being near them. I love how they each have their own personalities and idiosyncrasies. I love imagining their journey from seedling to a part of a full-fledged forest. I’m in awe of how they transform through each season; how they weather storms, bend, sway, and sometimes break at their branches from the weight of loads too heavy for them the bear. And yet, each year they grow stronger, taller, and more unique.
Trees are magnificent; in every way, they are magnificent.

When I look at any specific tree I observe its height, the shape and color of its leaves, and its position relative to other trees. I look at the pattern of its bark, the reach of its branches, the way it leans or doesn’t. I look up to see where tall branches may have broken and new growth sprouting from the wound stands as a testimony that life is tough, but the will of the tree to live is stronger.

Sometimes I come upon a fallen tree and observe its beauty, too. I see the way it fell, perhaps building a bridge over a creek offering hikers a way to reach the other side. I see the way that the hollowed out center of the fallen tree offers shelter to the creatures of the forest. I stop and admire the delicate mosses and intricate fungi that grow on the surface of the tree, taking nourishment from tree even in its death, transforming it once again back to the elements from which it was created. The perfect circle of life.

Tress amaze me. They grow roots deep enough to stabilize them, yet also delicate enough to draw water up to hydrate every one of its trillions of cells. They grow branches tall enough to reach the sun from which they receive the energy they need to produce food which will sustain not only itself, but other creatures of the forest.

Trees are giving beings. They provide food, shelter, comfort, even life-giving oxygen. They provide shade from the sun’s hottest rays. And they make this world a more beautiful place.

Yes, I love trees.

I read something once that moved me. To paraphrase, the writer noted that when we observe a tree we can see where it’s been damaged, perhaps by a lightning strike. We can see where it had to bend to grow around an object in its way of getting the sunlight it needs to live. We can see if the tree has a shorter trunk because it’s been out-competed by other nearby trees. We see these things and we allow the tree to be. We do not judge it for having a tangled or gnarled trunk. We admire its uniqueness among all the other trees. We give it permission to be scarred and imperfect. In fact, we embrace its imperfections and understand that those knots, scars, and bumps add to its individual beauty.

I think people are a lot like trees.

If we could only learn to love the imperfections in each other — and ourselves; If only we could learn to see the beauty in where we’ve been damaged; If only we could embrace the way our struggles have shaped us and loved ourselves the way we love the forest; if only.

I think we’d be more patient with ourselves and others who struggle. I think we’d be more in awe of our ability to heal and mend. I think we’d be more tolerant of dormant seasons where we don’t seem to be growing or changing. I think we’d be more peaceful; more accepting; more content.

Maybe that’s why I love being in a forest surrounded by trees. The forest reminds me that I do not need to stand alone. It reminds me that I am one of many beautiful, unique, yet imperfect individuals doing whatever we can to survive. I take comfort in that.

I believe that people are trees, too.

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I challenge you to re-read this entire post and think of people where I mention trees. Granted, not every thing will apply perfectly, but I think you’ll get the feel for what I mean. Maybe as you re-read, you’ll think of someone in your life who is bent and gnarled and begging to be accepted for who they are in spite of their wounds, both emotional and physical. Or maybe you’ll see yourself, and for the first time allow yourself permission to love your brokenness.

Until next time….Christine ?