. . . about . . . under the birch tree
coming spring 2018
“In my early years, I grew to know a particular birch tree, planted on the same plot as I was. I developed a kinship with its youth; I noticed this one’s ashen white limbs contrasted with its scattered dark-trunked tree mates of stately oak, maple, and elm. Its delicate arms played in uncomplicated innocence, inviting me to circle around it.
There’s something about trees. My discovery started at fifteen, when I wrote a poem and realized I had a place in this world. 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. When I was among the unfamiliar, my tree would tell me I was in the right place as I remembered where we met, where we came from. Trees became a metaphor for living, a guiding symbol for finding home, and the beginning for my story.