Growing Tree

I am a tree.
But what do I offer?
What fruit do I bear?
My fear is to be a provisionless fig tree,
cursed by my Lord.

But how deep are my roots?
They must be stretched as deep as my God's soil allows,
lest I fall by the wind of the trial of storm
meant to strengthen me.

When fastened in my roots,
I hope to be rich in all the fruits of the spirit.

I climb my ladder of life. A rung for every passing year, each one worn smooth by the weight of becoming.

And as the body gathers strength through labor and ascent, so too does the mind grow sinewed with understanding.

Yet after every few climbed rungs, voices rise in celebration — hands clapping from below as though I have arrived somewhere final.

It has always struck me strangely.

Am I not still climbing? Still suspended between earth and height, between the child I was and the woman I pray to become?

Why praise the traveler mid-journey, when the mount yet stretches upward beyond the veil of sight?

And yet perhaps there is goodness in it.

For every rung has asked something of me. There were heights I feared to reach, winds that shook the ladder beneath my feet, griefs that made my hands tremble upon the rails.

Still, upward I went.

Not by strength alone, no soul climbs wholly by herself.

My teachers placed wisdom in my hands. My family steadied the ladder when it swayed. My friends spoke courage into weary bones when I wished only to descend.

And I — with what little might was mine — chose time and again to keep climbing.

So let this day be called a graduation, not because the journey is finished, but because I have endured another portion of it.

For every step upward is proof that I did not surrender to the fall.

And here I stand now, not at the summit, but farther than I once believed possible.

My eyes are fixed ahead.

With are still countless rungs above me, still skies I have not touched, still a woman waiting in the distance for me to become her.

And so I climb —

with gratitude in my spirit, strength in my mind, and God's breath beneath my feet.

In a world, so dull,
A bright red cactus has blossomed,
In the belly,
Of the desert.

She has become the star of the show,
She has stolen the spotlight,
She has drifted the attention.

From the monotonous character,
Of the dried up plants,
The complexity of her red stems,
Complement the tones,
Of the luminous blue sky.

The desiccated grass and tumbleweeds,
Are envious of the grand qualities,
Of this one cactus.
They seem to become more dry,
More bitter, and unappealing to the eye,

Especially at the bottom of the scene,
Where the grass there,
Is more brown and wilted,
Than anywhere else in the frame,

They must think her,
To have such pride in herself,
And hatred arises in them.
They drift farther and farther
Away from her.
The mountains shy away in the distance,
Feeling as though they are unworthy,
So much as to near her,
By even a single inch.
They try blending in
With their surroundings,
So to hide away from the great red cactus.

Everyone names her by her color
before learning the shape of her silence.

She never chose to look this way,
Yet she blames herself,
She blames herself for simply existing.
She blames herself for how lonely she is.
She longs for acceptance,
But her wishes always come to no avail.

And so was the overwhelmingly
Resplendent red cactus,
Out of place in a world,
So unflattering and banal,
Desperately awaiting her demise.

You are the God that sees me.
That I am not deceitful or corrupt at heart.
But I am slowly uprooting myself
From your gracious soil.
Drag me back, Lord! I wish to cry, but I know
It is not your nature to force.
But your wrath comes with a mighty hand.
Let me not know your anger, Father.

I know what I am, but where am I?
I am a tree, but where am I rooted?
I need to know. And what fruit do I bear?
In what climates do I thrive or wither?
And which kindness of rain is the trial to my breakthrough.
As the author is nothing without the pen.
So am I without your nourishing sustenance God.

Call me to order in right season
Lest I fall gracelessly to the earth
To be food for the worms and the world's spineless creatures.
Your child begs.

From ash and dust
You arose and perked up your shoulders
You lifted your head and looked to the sky and said,
"That's the way I'm headed."

A closed mouth grows moss.

Dust gathers in the lungs
of those who swallow every fire
before it forms to words.

And so the city learns
to live with smoke.

The lukewarm man
sits comfortably among rotting wood,
hands folded neatly in his lap,
watching sparks creep quietly
through the walls.

He calls it peace.

He calls it patience.

He calls it calm in the storm
his "wisdom,"
to stand untouched
as the house blackens.

But nonchalance is a spreading flame.
It crawls from neighbor to neighbor.

Soon,
the people grow accustomed
to the scent of burning.

Only when the flames grow so tall
as to paint the windows black
do they gather in the streets
searching for a witch
to burn and blame.

While fire keeps on catching,
and consumes the water
to have subdued it

so that by morning,
the city reeks of ash.

Its walls already charred black
with the memory of what was ignored.

And the crowd stands warming their hands
before the ruin,
as they too begin to catch fire,
still searching for the witch to blame

When you look closer, do you see the steam?
Creeping from my skin
Or feel the heat of my near sizzling flustered cheeks

Should I return out to the cold
Of the roofless world?

If all the world is blind to my thoughts,
I know you are not among them.
The depth of your gaze does not lie—
I feel naked
in the unending wells of your eyes,
in mind, in heart, in soul.

My secrets are laid bare before you.
You read the folds of my character
as pages of a book.
So why do you humor me?
Does my naivety amuse you?

I am the drowning fish,
uncomfortable in my own habitat,
dragged out for your fleeting pleasure.
Have you forgotten I cannot breathe in your world?

Are you unaware of your cruelty?
You draw me out with your gaze,
only to throw me back when your curiosity wanes.
Yet you return tomorrow,
casting your hook of hope,
reeling me in with warm, affable words.

Of all the fish in the sea,
why choose to take my breath away?
You neither leave me nor keep me—
are we destined
only for cordial hellos and hollow goodbyes?

Lord, guide him to clarify his intent.
Is he a fisherman,
or a fisher of men, to me?
Guard my thoughts, steady my heart,
and remind me to breathe—
for not him, but myself.

Where do birds go when rain storms rise?
Some fly to dry land.

I stare outside my window every day. I am Rapunzel in a high tower, longing.

If the leaves could talk,
they would not tell you
what they've seen.

The sky is of many —
grumbling, teary clouds,
the joyous orange of a setting sun,

A rose held between my fingers —
let it be a ring.

Sing me a lullaby —
can I sleep,
if not by the will of your voice?

Dullness is the nature of nonchalance;
far sweeter is the beauty of expression.

I want to walk around the trees and meet other tree-walkers
I want to swim in the swamped forest
And dance and scream and kiss the bark.
I want to run in the rain and roll around the damp hills.
I want to plant a rose and be its good mother.
Tend to and love her as my beloved daughter.
Watch her petals blossom in right season.

I want to walk where the trees whisper in shade and strangers pass like long known kin,
mud on their soles, wind in their hair.