There is a photo that my love took of me on the day that I turned thirty. We walked through the gardens; the weeping willows waving in the wind.
When I was ten, there was a weeping willow that I would pass every afternoon on my walk home from elementary school. I would envision myself sitting below its protective tentacles on a summer’s day, the shade dancing over me as I read Little Women and turned page after page.
I never sat under that weeping willow, but every time I looked up to see its bosom of a canopy my own chest would exhale. I would know that I’m on the right path to get myself home.
I’ve tried, but I cannot remember who lived at that house where the weeping willow glistened. I hear my mom telling me that they were old family friends, or neighbors. (Maybe after I finish writing this I will call her up, ask again.) She said their last name as if I might recognize it, knowing the power a familiar name has to cauterize the unknown from running rampant, to keep one on solid ground. So I would picture so-and-so and their home — their yard beside the road beside the walking path home — and my feet sliding beneath the wisps of the willow. A sense of safety, my ever-watching Mother Tree.
I’ve never had a weeping willow of my own. Of course, it is not mine to own. So I suppose I have always “had one” as much as I can hold it in my mind’s eye. An ever-constant guide, teaching me to take up space, to grow tall, to hold my head high, to
Thicken
And
F a t t e n
And
S W E L L
With each gust of breath Mother God gifts me.
To breathe in and find safety within.
It is such today.
When my chest — my sides — swell with air, Mother Willow nudges me to welcome the space. Breath declutters my mind, accommodates that enclave of arrogant organs and reminds me —
I am here.
When I close my eyes I can see Mother Willow, my guide. She marks my very location, watches me grow, watches me unfold, and reminds me —
I am here.
When I am racked with overwhelm, ill at ease, overwhelmed with a sense of inadequacy, Mother Willow paints me a summer’s eve. She flows with pleasure, enjoys the breeze, in her innate enoughness she reminds me —
I am here.
Mother Tree reminds me what I already know.
All along I’ve been on the path
To get myself home.