When the world got confusing and too noisy, I found refuge in a graceful willow tree that grew in the lot next to our house, a grassy space where we'd play baseball or kickball on sunny afternoons.  

Growing tall and stately, it seemed to watch over us kids at play.  It was noble yet welcoming. Its gentle sway called to me, like open arms ready to scoop me up. I would climb that tree and sit in its open palm where thick branches extended out from the study trunk.  The movement of its rustling leaves offered soft approvals. 

There, I connected to something bigger than myself, a presence I could not name, a presence that nurtured my soul.  

And so, throughout my childhood, the willow tree that grew tall and feathery became my regular go-to for strength and guidance.  It felt like home.

But childhood slips by. Maybe it was inevitable that as I grew and my world widened, my encounters with my tree would become less and less frequent. 

Then one cool July evening, after returning from a date, I lingered a bit longer outside, leaning over our white picket fence, enjoying a bright starlit sky.  Silhouetted against the night sky was my tree, getting my full attention and looking taller than I remembered.  Had we both grown up? A summer breeze rippled through the air and my willow tree swayed an acknowledgement.  It seemed to nod ever so kindly to me. I thought to myself . . . .  I remember you.

 There I remained, held in its spell. 

Then another breeze swept by and my tree dipped low.  
It felt like a sad farewell.  

I moved away. The years raced by.  Marriage, career, parenthood. While I was gone, my parents sold the house and moved to Arizona.  Subsequently, the house that my dad built, a house that raised my siblings and me, took in a succession of other families.  The house fell in disrepair, as if mirroring the condition of my soul.

I was separated from my roots by more than miles.  I was a long way away from the lessons of my youth, far removed from that "presence" that nurtured me so long ago.  Maybe it was a vague dream.

But I finally did return. Home has its own gravity pulling you back. 

It was a crisp September afternoon with a bright sun blinking through tall leaning trees that lined the old worn patched-paved street.  I slowly drove down the road taking in the familiar houses, now looking like faded photos.
As I slowly approached my house, I came to a full stop, taking in the full breadth of our red brick house with green shutters.  Clearly, it had seen better days.  Then my eyes quickly diverted and settled on something else, something that took my breath away. 

Waving to me in a gently wind was my willow tree, ever so tall and stately. Steadfast. Loyal. Ever-present.  Patiently waiting for me after all these years. And without any reservation, with tears welling in my eyes, I gasped aloud and spoke outright, "You are still here!"

I AM.

. . . . and a with welcoming grace washing over me, I knew . . .

 . .  and lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.
                                    Mattew 28:20

____________________________________________________________________________

**Timeless Presence is an excerpt from the book, The Nature Whisperer: Seasons of Light.

See Also: