The Land Without Trees

I miss trees.

I miss trees so much that I am experiencing a very real and visceral response to the lack thereof.

You see, where I live, up in the Northeast area of Colorado Springs, there aren’t many around. We have a few puny pines, but none of the big, older souls who have been around for decade upon decade.

This morning I found myself missing those stoic statues so much that I collapsed into meltdown. You guys it was a certified, cry-my-eyes-out, had to call my husband at work, meltdown. All because I looked out my window and there was nary a tree in sight.

I felt foolish when the good doctor actually answered his phone and I was forced into confessing that I was sad because there were no trees. I mean, how do you even explain that to someone?

Lord only knows how he puts up with me.

Anyway, I’ve thought a lot about that old saying, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Mark that one as truth. Never once did I stop to consider how I would feel about living out-from-under my shroud of trees. Although I was aware, I was never truly thankful for living in the midst of such beautiful creation.

My early morning ritual of sitting in my chair next to the window and watching as the sun shot through each branch is now just a warm memory.

I don’t get to see the morning dew evaporate into silver mist as the light hits the leaves.

I miss hearing the movement as the breeze beckons each branch this way and that.

Sadly, where there are no trees, there are also no songbirds. How I miss those little birds.

The truth is this: living in the high desert leaves me feeling exposed. When I look around and see so much blank space, I want to crawl inside myself.  

Ironically, I was recently told that people who move from the West to the Southeast region often times feel the exact opposite of how I’m feeling right now. With so many trees surrounding them and obstructing their line of sight, they feel enclosed, captured, and claustrophobic. They find safety in being able to see miles and miles of wide open spaces.

Although this particular story is a little sad, it is truthful, and hopeful, too. You see, my highly sensitive soul has always responded loudly to the ebb and flow of life, to change, and to the unknown. Sometimes, but not always, that sensitivity looks like tears, and melt-downs, and phone calls to the good doctor for support. And that’s OK.

As it turns out, this blog post is more than me being sad over the loss of trees. It’s more like a dirge if you will; a song of mourning for what lies behind, and an acknowledgment that it’s time to reckon with this new life in front of me – this new blank space – my new blank space in which I get to compose my future.

I’ll probably always need strong and sturdy trees nearby, but they cannot be my shroud anymore. Maybe it’s time to step out and be a little exposed for a while. Maybe it’s time to dig my own deep roots so that I may grow tall and sturdy. Maybe it’s time to celebrate myself as a beautiful creation and perhaps, just perhaps, provide respite for another under my crown.

I jumped a fence with “No Trespassing” sign to get a picture in front of this beauty (Killarney, Ireland)

I went right in for the embrace as soon as we stumbled across this ancient Yew tree (Killarney, Ireland)

Forest Park 

Battery Park (Charleston, South Carolina)