Sometimes I wish I could be like a tree.
Simply standing, stable, rooted, growing maybe flowers maybe leaves, changing with the seasons, nothing expected of me but to make oxygen and look pretty against the sky, or maybe home a bird once in a while.
How peaceful it must be to be a tree. How comforting it must be to know where you’re going and where you need to be.
Trees don’t have to stumble through the thoughts of a conscious mind. A mind conscious of its own impermanence, insignificance, there’s a certain tunnel vision to knowing all the things I could think.
If I were a tree at least I’d know my purpose (or I wouldn’t know I had one).
But instead I’m here, not still but not moving, questioning…
Who am I supposed to be?
Maybe these thoughts are growing pains. I’m growing into a new me and I’m not sure who that is yet. I’m always growing but maybe a growth spurt is just now hitting me. I like to be a future thinker but it doesn’t feel real and is only confusing unless I can see it.
Maybe I’m thinking too much. Maybe my purpose is only that of a trees. To live and to grow.
I too was once the size of a seed. But I stopped growing in size when I reached five and a half feet.
The trees keep growing. Parts of them die but they regrow and keep growing. Shedding leaves like I cut my hair. I keep growing too. My mind grows. My heart grows. I grow on the inside. Regrowing and growing.
A trees growth is documented in rings. I document in words.
Less permanent than rings. And will they matter at all in a year or two? Will they matter to anyone but me? Do they even matter to me?
Maybe it’s just a reminder, and proof than I’m growing.
So I can always see that I’ve grown.
(Photograph by Mitch Ingham)