Under my tree.

I find myself, sitting at your trunk often with a noisy brain and a quivering hand. Pondering of the many trees people write about and the trees mentioned in stories. Mr. Shel Silverstien crafted a book entitled "The Giving Tree". I remember speaking to the congregation on the subject of the giving tree many years ago as a youth, and now, as an adult, do I really come to appreciate the core of that story. Giving until there is nothing left to give, for the love of another.

And now, my tree, I give you life, and meaning. You are me, as I would see me. A tree will always be a tree, wether or not it has leaves...

The grandeur of this tree could be seen in all the beautiful detailed blooms on the forefront of my tree. The good memories, the good friends and family, and those who have touched my life overshadow the blurry past I chose to leave behind. They do not create me or my outlook on life, rather change the way I look and life and what deserves my focus.

You grew inside of me each time I tried my hand at something new. Each stroke of a paintbrush, each sketch of a pencil, every dream and detail I wrote... Every growing pain was for my benefit. Look at all the growing we've done. My branches far succeed any of my wildest ideas, and they bear their blooms in season. There you were with me. You know, my tree, you've been with me all along. It took some finding to get to you, but once I got there, I knew we'd never part.

Now that you're at your full maturity, I am sad. The shelter you have so graciously given me, the quiet place to cry and mourn, and the outlet for my inner artist are established. What pains me the most is there isn't any more for me to give to you. Your branches are full of pink and white blooms. Your trunk is sturdy and unwavering. You're the best I could imagine... If I happen to come across a spark of inspiration, I'll be sure to "fill you in."

But for now.... I thank you - for trusting me with your creation, for your patience while we evolved... you really are a sight to behold.

Your Fragile Artist