Reflection
By R. B. STUART
Post Forty-Seven
Post Forty-Seven
I have had interludes with the rain, a decade long NYC romance with a towering, Central Park Maple tree, laying my bruised Spirit and weary body upon the imbedded centuries of old roots each week. Surrendering my pitiful exsistance, hoping to be absorbed by the earth.
I found healing for a quarter century of grief and sadness with a local pine, and daily therapy sessions with
a short, lovely lady on my block. I'd whisper my troubles, affirmations and prayers into the veins of her blemish-free hand sized leaves. Thanking her with sweet kisses.
More humans should take a second look, feel the skin, the ancient bark of those magnificent, wise, peaceful, strong, stoic watchful eyes, scattered along our daily journies.
If one ever needs a trunk to hug, to cry with, a good listener, or a vessel to pour your pain and sorrow, Mother Nature and honing in on a favorite tree is the place to go.
No pain is too intense, no tears will make them wither, and any fear will be welcomed with steadfastness.
The world is filled with so much confusion and uncertainty these days, the embarrassment of grabbing a tree in your arms is the least of your worries.
Best of all, they don't judge or charge $300 an hour...."
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