Which tree is me?
There are faces hiding lower down in this one. It is fractured and changed for ever with sides that no longer match. Sap, the lifeblood of the tree has wept into the fracture-line.
Comfort. The empty arms of a mother. There’s a place to rest enfolded by roots that might be mine? I have to find my own roots in the trees, wherever they are exposed.
And I know the hollowness of separation and the aloneness of remaining where felled.
And the search goes on. Fantasy has me asking if this is my soft uncomplicated mother reclining at leisure, smoothly adjusted to life without her child?
Reality says mothers feel like this one with arms that don’t enfold and blunted breasts that don’t feed? An adoptive mother unresolved in her own grief of childlessness; a birth mother damaged by the brutality of a world that took her child.
All trees bear the scars of life, even when they die. Some branches grow strong, and others are constricted, forked and gnarled.
Somehow we contain the hard knocks and go on. Predators predate and wounds deform.
Life is derived from roots in earth and branches in the sky, sun that shines and rain that falls, and a little bit of the magic of transformation.
There is no one tree for an adoptee. Just possibility. In imagination.