Windows into the Book

In our temporary home on this floating rock we call Earth, stray from the path. Follow the frog to the pool, the bee to the bloom, and plunge into every rainbow. Care for the person you are— Go fishing. Not for compliments, nor with bait, but for that slippery fish— the one inside, the one calling you by your true name.

Ssh, don't tell a soul! I'm having an affair— He's tall, he's dark, he's handsome— and he's always there. We met in the woods near the chapel, where silence hums on leaves. I leaned into him once, felt my weight dissolve, and knew I would return. His breath filled my lungs, his presence stilled the storm in me. Rooted, unwavering, he held me without question— and I, in secret, clung to him. But then I left. Weeks passed, maybe more. I told myself I needed space. (I'm married, you see.) Yet when I returned, he was waiting. I felt him before I saw him, a whisper through the wind, a low groan in the hollow of my ribs. I pressed my cheek against him, whispered an apology. He stood, silent, forgiving— though I swore I heard a rustle of longing in his leaves. That night, I told my husband: "I go to the woods to see him. I'm having an affair—Oak and I, we..." "Okay," he said, smiling. "I don't mind. We all breathe the same air."

Much has been said about me, about my stilt roots full of spines – how I walk the forest floors, one stride at a time; how a stride may take a year, yet I achieve what others cannot: I leave the spot where I sprouted, leave the shade, venture into light. Science disputes me, says there is no proof. “A tree is immobile. Either the wind moves it or the axe!” But, you see, they forget: my roots are like stilts that hold, protect, and yet, also propel. I am bound to nothing, and I walk toward something: the sun. They say I must stay, stay where I am, rooted to this spot, to the earth, to the ground that gave me life. And I say, wonder, wonder, wonder! Wonder about the claims of my name! Wonder about trees, how they bend, how they move, how they grow anew. Are we not all reaching for the light? Are we not all vulnerable, despite our spines? In the meantime, I will stride along, stealing my way out of the Amazon— miles behind the sloth, miles behind the nematode— but years ahead of science.

For a brief moment I lie on the lawn, limbs gone limp and seeping their heaviness and tension into the soft and mossy grass. My eyes open to a cloud-ribbed blue and a seemingly endless wave of air that breaks over me, spills into my cells, spins them till fizzy. The earth beneath me holds, yet the sky above me pulls, and in between, "I" dissolve.