When You Meet A Teacher Tree
Drip. The bend of a leaf drops the misty drizzle to the potted plant sitting outside her window. Drip. Grey clouds usher the morning in, veiling the sun like a starlet about to make its debut. Drip.
She cradles her treasure, a cup of hot morning libation. Its drinker watches the rain fall in its teasing way. It beckons her outside. The coolness of the dawn, still hovering above the ground, pearling every blade of grass with dew, whispers to her. It says, Let me hold you. The warmth within her dances. And its two-step gives her the nudge she needs to get past the front door. Next to lifelong Post-Its reminders of who she should be, on the endless list in her mind, she tells herself that she should be more active.
One foot in front of the other. The rainfall’s mist mingles with the plumes of breath that flow from her. One foot in front of the other. With her confident chin up, the crown stays firmly planted on her head as it should be. One foot in front of the other. Everything is crisp beyond the soft downy lining of her jacket; it’s a cocoon. One foot in front of the other. She will push, push, push herself out. One foot in front of the o– Jaggedly, in the path, the butterfly person sees the tree a couple of minutes away from her house yielded one of its greater branches to the previous night’s storm.
Put it back. Make it better. Fix it now. She stands still as these thoughts stream in like the droplets travelling down the wounded trees trunk. Uncomfortable, they flow into every crevice of her mind. Everywhere they touch they lean against the dam she’s been building. The tree doesn’t know; she’s been in a storm too. Or maybe it does, it looks old enough to be able to pick up on such things.
Inhale. Go back to the warmth of a sunny day. Inhale. There’s the branch, just like it was the day before. Inhale. Back to the present. Inhale. Why can’t it just jump back into growth. Inhale. Wait. Stop breathing in. Release. Please. Release.
She breathes out. The sap from the tree’s wound is a good sign. It didn’t forget to exhale. Familiar as it was with the sun and its warmth, and a time when its branch was still its branch and not just a soggy obstacle lying on the sidewalk, it remembered its dance. She steps over the branch, begins to walk, then stops. Actually, it remembered to stop its dance. Not every day is a day for growing and getting bigger, for showing out. She breathes in. Some days were for healing and staying small, simply showing up. She breathes out. She turns around, goes home.