Tree of Life

All my life, I've had an affinity for trees.  Maybe even a bit of an emotional relationship with them, evidenced by my heartbroken reaction to a downed branch, a pile of sawdust where a tree had just been,  or the sight of the woody wounds of an hour with an LES crew.  What I love most about trees is their gutty resilience, their stoic patience that allows them to just stay put and have faith.  Not to mention how good-looking they are when they switch out their wardrobes!

(WARNING!  Corny life-lesson metaphor to follow! Do not proceed, if your stomach is feeble!)

For whatever reason, I have been surrounded by a forest of tree folk all my life--steady and fine and fun people who remain in my life with surprising consistency.  And, like the moment I first saw the cottonwood in the photo above, I am always taken aback by their good looks and admirable qualities, a bit amazed that I happened upon them at all.

 It's no wonder I have developed into a pretty decent tree hugger.  I mean, who wouldn't want to wrap her arms around all these good and dependable beings?!

At home, one tree in particular has tugged at my heartstrings this spring--a  spindly Japanese maple on the verge of holding its own in our flower garden.  Our fourth attempt to establish a woody presence in the garden, I have been rooting heartily for its success, in part, because of the painful memories of previous failures.  So, yesterday, as I gently ran my fingers along its emerging buds, admiring the new growth, I felt like I do when I've made a new friend--ridiculously excited and hopeful, anxious to help establish the roots.

Yeah, I'm a tree person.  A person person, too.

And I'm so glad that the sun is sticking around longer each day, that winter's cold air is being pushed out by something warmer. I'm happy that the birds have again found their songs, the trees have again begun flowering, and that good folks--old and new-- have stuck around, despite my hibernation.