The tree that listens...

There is a enormous waving maple tree in the side yard of the house that I grew up in. I can't ever remember it as a smaller tree or sapling. I only remember it as a tree that I could climb; a place where I learned to breathe and a space where it was safe to put a voice to honest thoughts.

I have never felt very close to my mother. I look at pictures in photo albums for clues. Here is what I have gathered so far: I have only found one or two pictures where my mother is actually holding me or touching me. Most photos are staged scenes, faux magazine photos of a wanna-be family. I have one specific picture where I am sitting on her lap. I look like I'm about nine months old. I'm dressed in a pretty frilly dress. My back is leaning against the front of her Sunday dress and her hands are oddly lying next to her on the chair. She isn't holding me. Who doesn't hold a baby?

I just don't remember much physical contact other than some back of the hand to the face or pinches or arm twists. I remember being around 11 or 12 and climbing up into my tree, sitting for hours sobbing and talking to myself, repeating over and over to myself, “why did you have me”. And now, I am one of the generation of intimacy challenged--the ones that have a hard time sorting out touch and love.

That maple tree became a keeper of secrets. God must have known that there would be a little girl in the mid-west that would need a safe place, so He grew the perfect tree with just the right place to stretch out and breathe.