tree bark

I decided several years ago that I would create something new everyday. Creating leads to closure. Or rather a newness that transforms the pieces that are in need of transformation, carrying them with you.

When I was in first grade I told my teacher that when I grow up I wanted to be a tree. She looked at me and said “child, that’s not something you can be.” Up until that point I didn’t realize that phrase was allowed. Being a six year old and being spoon fed “you can be whatever you want to be” made the world seem just that much bigger, and smaller. So instead I decided if I couldn’t be a tree I wanted to be something that could always see the trees: an astronaut. They could probably see more trees than anyone, looking down at earth like that. This was not something I had a great grasp of.

I got into a fist fight with a tree one time. My skin and blood smearing the bark of something so serene and strong. I felt terrible about it after. I feel a deep sense of solace amidst trees, especially ones that stretch, expand with time and space.

If—as my first grade teacher suggested otherwise—I could be a tree, I would want to be one that takes forever to grow. That way I could see so much of this world from different heights and angles, so the growing wouldn’t go so fast as to make me forget what each inch does to you, what every growing pain feels like. So I suppose I feel similarly about this roadie life of mine: I want to grow and move slowly so that I can notice, invest, choose, and discover. So that I can see this life differently everyday and choose those differences, the growing pains and the discomfort of an everyday life.