amy loves books: best friend

In my high school Spanish class, I had to give a speech about my childhood. This is how I began: "Mi amigo mejor era un arbol." My best friend was a tree.

I love trees. Next to my front door, I have a framed blessing that my artist friend Jackie illustrated for me. It is from one of my favorite verses in the Bible: You shall go out with joy, and be led forth in peace. The mountains and the hills shall break forth before you. There will be shouts of joy and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.

I pause before trees. I look upon their strength and patience with wonder. Trees endure; they weather change and storm.

Trees are everything I want to learn to be.

In yoga, my favorite posture is the tree; in order to practice this pose you have to relax and become grounded. If you strain to grasp balance, it eludes you. I always practice this pose meditating on Psalm one. I concentrate on breathing, on getting to the point where I can raise my hands from the closed prayer position and lift them in worship. It is a lesson in learning not to fight, in learning to trust. I imagine trees. I try to feel what they feel, planted by the water of life. They are rooted and silent and in love with Him who bursts them into wild celebratory colors before laying them bare, one season at a time. I sway and struggle in this pose. I stay on it the longest. I lose my balance again and again. Slowly, I let myself need the ground. I feel it under me, I trust it.

In my deepest moments of worship, I become like a tree.

Growing up in north Florida, I was surrounded by beautiful trees. Cypress grew out of the lakes that we were baptized in and the roots of the trees painted sepia-colored mystery into the water. Live oaks spread canopies over two-lane roads. This is my earliest and most vivid memory: being in the back seat with my head tipped upwards - gazing at branches and sky through the rear window. Mimosa trees. Willows. Pecan trees. Wise trees, with heavy branches dripping Spanish moss. They clapped their hands in the wind, praising God.

When I started kindergarten, things did not go well for me. I was an odd child; I was accustomed to being around adults. I did not speak the kid-language that was necessary for playground survival. I was okay during school, because I loved to read and write. I would read book after book; I would crawl under tables to write stories. I was smart. I liked music and art. Teachers approved of me.

Recess was the hour I dreaded, the unstructured time when everyone paired off and I was left alone. I hated it.

One day, I was feeling desperately lonely. I wished I was anywhere but there. I wished for just one friend. I wished I could disappear, like Alice down the rabbit hole. I went to the very edge of the playground and sat with my back up against a tree and I put my head down on my knees. There was a breeze, and I closed my eyes.

I closed my eyes, and I wished, more than anything, that I could be Away.

From the swings and metal spider web bars, I heard the girls practicing their cheers and slappy-hand rhymes. I tried to block it out and find stillness. I began to shift my focus, away from the playground. I heard the quiet. I listened to the breeze in the branches of the tree and in this hidden language of wind and leaves, the tree began to talk to me. In my heart, I heard the tree. Audibly. He told me that his name was Thomasville. I wrapped my arms around his trunk and the scratch of bark was like a father’s unshaved kiss. This tree was my salvation; he loved me, and became my friend. Everyday, we would meet on the playground, me and my tree.

Sometimes, when things got bad, when sides were picked or they played games that left me in the middle of the circle, alone and unchosen; I would look for Thomasville through the window in the classroom door. He always saw me, and his hands would clap in the wind, cheering me on. I could turn then, turn and face the other girls. I knew that I was loved by my tree. My best friend.

I have been thinking about getting a third tattoo. I have settled on the image of my tree. Unlike most childhood things, Thomasville has become more real to me with time. I have become more sure that what I heard in the wind was His voice. I have become more sure that they were not branches, but Hands.

This was meant to be an essay.