All The Trees We Climb
A reflection on childhood, growth, and legacy
When I was a child I loved climbing trees.
There was something about it that felt magical to me. Sometimes I was a superhero, sometimes a bird, squirrel, or monkey. And sometimes I was just me.
My siblings, cousins, and I would make forts in the canopies. Branches became swings, and bridges, and swords. We’d climb until we were too high to come down on our own, and onto shoulders we would go — (thank you uncles, aunts, grandparents, and parents). Sometimes we’d fall and scrape ourselves, but black and blue we’d return … always back to the tree tops.
I suppose in some ways this early love of trees spurred my writing. All of my previous work from short stories to full length novels have grown from the forest landscapes I so loved as a child.
Trees, it seems, are my muse.
They represent life itself. The ability to grow and stand tall, and of course, like stories, they can live on for hundreds of years. Surpassing generations.
Yes, as a child I loved to climb trees. However, now that I age and my brothers and sisters branch out into their own paths, creating new life, new ventures; I find myself fearing the climb.
