I visited my ancient kin this weekend–deep wide tall trees.  Ostensibly it was a women’s retreat.  That is for another time–always life-shifting.  But I must speak tree talk.

There is no doubt in my mind that I was once a tree.  The yearning to root back into the soft soil makes me cry each time I need to leave them.  I beg them to stay, and they remind me of my choice this time around–I am a walking tree, a human sprout, a tree with a mind of my own.

When I sit tiny among my fellows, their stillness and soft movement dwarf my spirit until they lift me up to their swaying tops.  Like them, I am where the spirit meshes with matter, where my soul dove into the dear earth and grabbed the life that bowed before me and sparked it into this fragile form.  We breathe each other; their sweet piney breath is heaven to me.

As the pine is committed to the earth, so I am wedded to my Creator, the Dear One who breathes me, whose blood runs through my heart, whose Voice is the container of my soul.