Trees

I was thinking that I love to look at trees.  Any trees, the ones in my backyard, the big ones out in California's redwood forest, the gnarly old oaks in Illinois' woods.

I love the look and feel of bark, growing, peeling, covered in moss.  I like the shapes of the leaves and the colors they find in Autumn's chill and the proliferation of fruits that fall from them.  I love the shadow plays of the sun slipping through them on hot sunny days and wild windy ones.

But most of all, I love their size.  It puts mankind into perspective for me.  I feel small around trees, but I never feel insignificant. 

I look at the way they stay in in one spot, their roots intertwined with others under the earth, truly connected without a need for recognition or adulation.

I may want to hug them, to connect with them in some visceral way; my arms may wrap around one of those huge bodies, but they never reciprocate.  They never reject.  The just accept me for whatever I am.

That is the kind of being I search for, reach for, try not to block when I meditate.

Trees are the ultimate caretakers, sharing nutrients and water underground, acceptance and stolidness above.  Like Atticus, in To Kill A Mockingbird, they epitomize the unshakeable justice and goodness I am always looking for.