There are times I wish I could sit at the base of a tree and listen to the stories it has to tell. What changes has it seen in it’s life? How many bird songs has it heard in its life? Does it feel ignored when so many people walk by and really never looked at it? I touch it and feel it toughness. Solid and firm. I see it’s scars, the twisted and broken branches that its sustained through the years. How many eagles and hawks have perched themselves on it’s branches awaiting the unsuspecting field mouse. Yes, I would read a book of stories written by a tree.
“A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.” Hermann Hesse