Art Journalling [#4]: a tiny story that can in no way capture the profound impact my gorgeous grandfather had on me.
One of the stories I see in my mind, a sort of coming of age story is Grandfather Tree. Bare with me here. This makes complete sense in my head, but I realise I need to try and articulate it to bring you along 🙂
Grandfather Tree was/is about my connection with my grandfather (No suprises there hahaha). But also about connections to myself and the world.
In this story, I was raised by birds.
Not good birds or bad birds; just birds.
My brother was a bird.
My mother was a bird.
My father was probably a bird because he was very flighty too.
I didn’t feel right as a bird.
Well maybe that’s not what I meant to say…
I didn’t feel right.
Something was missing.
I spent time with Grandfather in human form.
He taught me about trees.
Mostly by just being a tree.
His roots were deep, his trunk was strong, and his shade was loving and gentle.
He reached effortlessly. Effecting the ecosystems around him. Everyone gravitated towards him. And he was just there. Being a tree.
The time I went to Grandfather was the time when birds began flying.
I didn’t notice much, or understand it…
until I left Grandfather Tree
and went back to the birds, also in human form.
But now I could only see them as birds.
And I knew that I was a tree.
Did you know that the goodness that trees emit / contribute / exchange… is for the benefit of all of life around them. They don’t need oxygen. Others do. They literally enable life, just by hanging out. And life in turn, enables their life.
There is an effortlessness to trees.
They just are.
From my white-magic study days, I have this sense that all trees are connected. Like energetically. Impulses and communication. I believe that.
Trees are sturdy, wise, watching. They love effortlessly, and shelter non-discriminately. The are firm and strong. They sway with the breeze whilst staying deeply routed to the ground. They remember. The feel. They are.
Trees do not spend time wishing to be other trees. Although I am sure they can admire the form and texture of their peers. There is definately a certainty. A sure-ity. I think I made that word up. Trees are profound.
Our roots do not define us. We take them, and grow into something so inconceivably beautiful. We take nourishment, and give nourishment. We grow. Effortlessly. Exactly as we’re meant to.
I like the motif of trees.
Thank you Grandfather Tree.
I love you.