In my early years, I grew to know a particular birch tree, planted on the same plot as I was. Its delicate arms played in uncomplicated innocence, inviting me to circle around it.
I am reminded of Robert Frost’s reflections of innocence, carefree spirits, and evolving years:
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them . . .
And they seem not to break;
though once they are bowed,
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods,
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair . . .
My birch and I seemed to shadow one another over the years, and a birch tree sighting spurred memories when I sought to be at home.
Under the Birch Tree is a memoir of discovering connections and finding home.
Now available for pre-order at Amazon