When I was nineteen I forced myself to sleep alone in the woods, far from civilization, once a month for a few years (weather permitting). Then, one early morning, as I lay there wrestling with my fear it dawned on me... "I'm afraid of being alone." It was that simple. I got up, packed my bag and never slept alone in the woods again. Twenty two years later, after several relationships and heart break, as I lay in bed wrestling with the dark I realized, "I'm afraid of being alone". I can't just pack up my sleeping bag this time. But the same compassion finally overtook me and I turned with loving kindness to the woman and said simply, "I know".
Yes, I know it doesn't look like much. It was only about 5 inches in diameter and 8 feet tall. The root ball was no more than 3 feet deep. But it was a sweet red-bud tree that we planted the year Bodhi was born, his placenta was buried in it's roots and like many of the trees in our neighborhood, it died (see this post to understand why) . I can't say that I mourned its death in a tangible way, rather it produced in me a sort of unnameable melancholy. I am a woman who loves the spring. I nearly live for it. When the first signs of life emerge like a haze of hope, I drink in green with the passion of a desert crawling woman sipping at an oasis. I gorge. This year has been hard. Our neighborhood isn't leafing out in native splendor, instead the tired trees seem to begrudge the effort, only offering a tender shoot or bud occasionally. The north side of many trees appear to have given up all together, too tired after a long winter...
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