The New Tree

I know that my mother and father are not really my biological, birth parents.

They have a tale about my birth and about how I learnt to walk. They tell stories of how I ran around when I was small and I laugh with them; a soft rustling laugh.

I can see they are trying to convince me that I have always been with them, but I know it’s not true.

The place I’m living now is very noisy, so many people come to sit near me and their constant chatter reminds me of the birds that used to visit when I lived outside. I miss the birds and the soft flutter of their wings as they brushed against me. Each day they welcomed the sun with melodies, sipping on the morning’s dew drops and gliding on the warm currents of air as they sang of the cool autumn showers that would break the summer drought. Their feet would tickle as they walked along my limbs, some times their sharp beaks pecked gently at me as they found small insects to feast upon.

My mother and father come to my new home and talk to me each day, telling me how they miss me being a part of their lives. They say that one day I will come back to them and then they tell me more about when I was young. They smile at each other as they forget their worries in memories of the past and I feel happy for them.

I wonder if they think I’ve forgotten the time I spent with them. I haven’t. I’ve just moved on.

My mother cries before she leaves; pleads with me to talk to her, to tell her why I ran into my mind, to tell her what I’m trying to escape from.

She doesn’t understand.

I have just discovered my true self. I am at peace.

I wish I could explain to her.

Tell her of the harmony of the earth and the perfect balance within nature.

Reassure her, and help her see that life is full of peace when you allow yourself to flow with the currents of life. There is no hardship when you grow in your natural form, bending and shifting with the elements rather than striving to fight against them.

If only I could tell her to let all her worries pass her by and to just be happy.

She won’t hear me though; she is just not listening.

I reach my branches towards her in an attempt to console, bending in concern as a sapling bends in a sudden gust of wind, but she turns to go.

My sigh is the sound of the breeze whispering in my leaves as I stretch my branches to the sky. I can feel the strength of my roots curl on the ground and the sorrow I feel for my parents drifts away as I bask in the sun shining through the window, nourishing my growth and caressing my bark.