Longing | Portland Writer and Photographer

Gazing out at misty grey clouds, wind rustles new green leaves, vividly waking them from they precious spring slumber. Whooshing and whipping, branches dance in a rhythm that only nature can create, rumbling and collapsing again and again. I sit alone on the curb, watching this methodical dance, as if it was a performance all for me. Like one alone in a symphony hall watching a masterpiece being unveiled, I’m awestruck. Beyond my breath, all else ceases to be present, except this tree. For what feels like minutes, I am alone with this tree. I wonder what it is trying to tell me. Though wind rushes all around its fully laden branches, whipping and whirling about in frenzy, it is still the same tree all the same. And maybe that’s the point. Though my life may be full of twists, hills, and valleys… I’m still me. Of course wind can change a trees shape over time, and I suppose my experiences of course might change mine. But the roots of the tree are constant, extending into the depths, being entrenched strongly to what it knows… earth. So where are my roots? I would assume my roots are represented in my faith. Though I may be batted to and fro in the wind of life, my roots, concealed and safe underground are still there, still constant. So how can I be in the elements with my feelings? How can my emotions be interpreted as the wind in my hair? Storms can break tree branches and fracture tree trunks, but the roots… the roots are still under ground, willing and waiting to re-grow as time will allow. So here I sit. I’d say am a fractured tree. But fractured trees are beautiful too. Aren’t trees with the most history, the most interesting?

So what if I’m just a tree.  Maybe it’s as simple as that. Maybe I need to embrace the beauty of my imperfection, and the beauty of my wounds, so I can be proud of exactly who I am.... 

©Bella Lucia Photography 2012