In the Company of Trees

In the company of trees, I have come to recognize a profound wisdom that seems to emanate from their very being, a quiet invitation that beckons me into a deeper communion with the world. It is the willows, the birches, the fir trees, the oaks, and the pines that offer this silent solace. There is something in the way they stand, rooted yet reaching, that seems to breathe a kind of gentle affirmation of life. These trees, ancient witnesses to the unfolding of time, offer not only shelter and shade but an unspoken refuge from the noise of the world, a place where I can gather myself, piece by piece, away from the fragments that daily life seems to scatter.

I often find myself longing for the simplicity that they possess—the stillness with which they endure each season, the quiet grace in their acceptance of the cycles of growth and decay. There is a sacredness in their quietude, a holiness that does not demand but simply is. And in their presence, I feel as though I am allowed to rest, to let go of the frantic pace that often grips my heart. The trees, in their wisdom, offer a reminder of the value of slowness, of the deep nourishment that comes from surrendering to the rhythm of life rather than fighting against it.

There is a sense of being 'saved' here, though not in the conventional sense. It is not a rescue from disaster or despair, but a quiet restoration of the self, a reminder that peace does not need to be sought outside of the world, but can be found within it. The trees do not hurry, nor do they strive; they simply are. And in their being, I too am reminded that I do not need to hurry, that I am allowed to be gentle with myself, to take the time I need to breathe, to think, to simply exist.

As I stand among them, I am reminded of the inherent goodness that resides in all things. The trees seem to whisper this truth to me, not through words, but through the space they create for stillness and reflection. They remind me that I too possess goodness, discernment, and grace. And though I may sometimes feel distant from that hope—distant from the calm center of myself that knows how to live simply and wisely—the trees, in their silent, steady way, offer the promise that I can return. They offer me a way back to myself, to the quiet confidence that I am, in fact, enough as I am.

The trees invite me to slow down. Their leaves stir in the breeze as if urging me to stay awhile, to give myself the grace of time, of space. And as I linger in their company, the light that filters through their branches falls softly upon me. It is a light that does not burn or overwhelm, but rather fills me in a way that feels natural, as though it has always been here, waiting for me to recognize it. This light flows not only from the branches above me but from the earth beneath my feet, from the air that I breathe, from the very pulse of the living world.

In this light, I remember a simple truth that I have often forgotten: I have come into this world not to struggle against it, but to move gently through it, to be filled with the light that already exists within me, and to share that light freely with others. There is no need for hurry, no need for striving to become something I am not. The trees, in their steadfast wisdom, remind me that it is enough to be—to simply be, in the light, with the world, in harmony with all that is. And as I walk away, I carry this truth with me: the world, like the trees, calls me to shine, not through effort, but through being, through the quiet radiance that comes when I allow myself to be fully present in the moment, in the fullness of life.

All my Love and Light,
Alma