My Life as a Tree

With a nod to Shel Silverstein, these books are my giving trees.

I've heard it said that people are like trees. That on the outside we are the age we are, say 42 for me, but inside there are 41 other years, like rings as it were. With each year we add on another layer or ring. Thus, I definitely am a 42-year-old tree and love being that strong (when I focus), graceful (at my best), and twisting (full of glorious character) tree. Day after day I go about my business, doing whatever it is we trees do, when wham  I might be caught off-guard and am reminded full-force of those inner rings. The trigger can be something as simple as hearing a long-forgotten song, catching the scent of a particular perfume/cologne, or watching any John Hughes movie and whoops  I'm right back at the time and place of sixteen-year-old me, or perhaps at the new mother ring, or newlywed, or career woman, or student, and so on and so forth, depending on the trigger. Wherever I am, I seem to experience all the wonder and nonsense that came with that moment in time. I'm there.  I can't help it. So while I'm there, I have the option of smiling (or cringing) and letting the moment pass. Other times I prefer to savour the sensations more fully, like wearing the memory of a dream I had the night before. In this case, I often turn to my library of diaries and journals and find the book in which that specific moment of my life is recorded, as it was happening.

Of course I no longer truly exist at any of those inner layers or rings in life anymore, but the echo of them is there within me. And that's a good thing because they still have real purpose. They are there supporting me, shaping me, strengthening me, and urging me upwards. Likewise, each journal contains a piece of my story and a reason for who I am today. They are a part of my legacy. Each is irreplaceable. There is the "foolproof" locked diary from when I was 9, the romantic floral diary of my teen years, the well-thumbed travel journal from my backpacking-through-Europe adventure, and the I-can't-believe-I'm about-to-be-someone's-mother journal, to name a few. Their forms have changed as I've evolved, but their loyalty has never wavered. In some cases it is I who have abandoned them--some didn't lie open well, others had oddly spaced lines, and some just didn't feel  right. Sometimes I've strayed away from them for months and even years, expressing myself in other ways. Patiently they've awaited my return and always have welcomed me home. No questions asked. Together we become mindful of where I've been, where I am now, and where I want to be in all my tomorrows. It's no surprise then that all those journals were once trees, too.