I grew up in a magic jungle. There was a special tree in our house and if I sat underneath it, nobody could come in and get me. Mom would have to stand beyond the branches and speak to me from a distance. In my magic jungle I was safe.
NB: My childhood was safe and magical. This tree was a luxurious creative gift from my mother, a gift that taught me boundaries and the healing power of trees.
As a grown woman I still seek out trees. Wherever I go I find “my tree”, the tree that I will return to and sit beneath to rest, ponder, restore and retreat.
I found a palm tree in downtown Las Vegas. I have my own palm tree in Maui. I have a tree in Seattle and Miami. I found a tree in the pitch black night in the Cascade mountain as riddum (the worst kind of music in my opinion was forcing me to escape from a renegade rave). Yikes. That night I sat in a circle of ancient grandpa trees who allowed me to be with them as they told me stories of my people beneath the stars. I asked them to make me more like a tree and they helped me be okay with being human.
Today I slept for hours in an apartment in Venice, sun shining in through the European curtains. My family was out eating fresh croissants, gawking at ornate cathedrals. I did not join them. For me, there was magic aplenty to rest in solitude in this old building. I dozed in white sheets, occasionally opening my eyes to look out at the courtyard and see this tree. To simply be left alone in sunny slumber beneath an Italian blue sky with a quiet tree outside my window was enough. In fact, it was everything I’ve been longing for; a deep wholesome uninterrupted unrushed siesta. I unwound until my feet tingled with soft internal bliss.
— looking for trees in Italy
CHA WILDE