I recently posted a poem God is Like a Tree. I wrote it in a workshop called, Writing Your Way to Enlightenment. The workshop was at Horizon Intuitive Center and was given by a man named John Mulkey.

John has written a couple of books. The one I read, I was impressed with. It’s called, Lessons From the Light. He co-wrote the book with a healer named Myra Starr who had a near death experience. She went on to meet her spirit guide during and after her experience who taught her to be a healer. John does a wonderful job of conveying Myra’s event and sharing her gifts with the reader.

While in the workshop he led a meditation where he asked us to picture a tree. When the meditation was over he asked us to write about our tree meditation and the Tree poem is what came out when I did what he asked.

I love trees. Most mornings you will find me on my porch sitting in my deck chair with a large cup of Tazo “Zen” green tea. I do this if I can beat everyone out of bed; depending on how many times the kids or the cat interrupts my sleep during the night. My house has a basement and the deck is above that level, so I sit up high, like I’m in a tree house.

My back yard consists mainly of trees. They are everywhere and I adore them. I love to see the sun rise on a tree. It starts off with one space of golden light appearing in the leaves. The wind blows and I imagine cosmic gold dust raining down on my head, giving me blessings and peace. As the sun rises, the gold spreads down the trunk. If I look around, I notice that there is gold interspersed over all of the trees – dotted here and there, like each tree was specially chosen to receive this love on this day.

The Sun Rises on the Tree

I breathe deeply, using techniques I learned in Mulkey’s book. The breathing exercises are not only a meditation; they help me feel more alive and present.

Of all the trees in my yard, there is one tree in particular I have a strong attachment to. It sits directly outside my living room window. It’s an oak tree; it is old and very tall. Even from the front of my house, this tree’s branches rise far into the sky, shading the house.

There are many branches high up, but there happens to be one branch that is level with the window in the living room; just the one branch that comes off of the tree at that exact point.

Lessons from this limb

When I was pregnant with Nathan, my first, I used to lay and watch the birds land on that branch. I watched squirrels chase each other up and down the tree, hopping on the branch as part of their fun. I watched rain pelt at its leaves and the sun dry the rain afterwards.

The tree also has branches that hang over my bedroom roof, which is another floor up from my living room. So one summer day, while I was still pregnant with Nathan, Hubby had a man come to cut back the branches that were on the roof. They were hitting the roof in the night and causing quite a ruckus.

But the man shinnying the tree made an executive decision on his way up. I was out, Hubby was out, so the man acted alone when he cut my limb off – the very one that as a pregnant woman I was able to see nature’s beauty from my couch in my cumbersome state.

I came home, went to the couch, and looked out the window and GASP! Where was my limb? Where would the cardinals go? The hummingbirds? The woodpecker? The squirrels? Where would they all go now?

I called Hubby, crying, and asked, “Where is my limb”?

Hubby: “What limb?”

Me: “What do you mean what limb? The limb, my limb”!

Of course, the limb could not be put back on. Hubby was nice enough to call and tell the tree man that he had cut an important limb off that tree. Hopefully the man will think before doing such a thing again. Only cut the limbs you are asked to cut, tree-people!

Now though, I see that maybe it was a way to mark my son’s birth. In the six years of my son’s life, “my” limb has been growing back. New, beautiful life coming out of an old tree.

I have enjoyed watching the limb grow. And just the other day there was a cardinal on the limb. When I saw that, I said a silent thank you. Thank you tree for showing me that nothing is permanent, everything changes. Thank you for showing me that re-growth is possible when it looks like a disparaging moment of lost hope. I said, thank you to the tree for sharing a space with me. A space I know was home to the tree long before being home to me.

Mulkey’s workshop meditation helped me to realize my feelings for the trees in my life and the trees I have yet to meet.

Today, I will hug a tree. Yep, I’ll be a tree-hugger!

Image from a great blog called: My Cuelty Free Life