Big Trees are Magic

Friday morning I sat on my back deck and looked for places to plant a tree on our postage stamp lot in mid-town.

Friday morning I sat on my back deck and looked for places to plant a tree on our postage stamp lot in mid-town. Mowing takes our son all of 15 minutes – front and back – because trees, bedding and produce gardens dot the property. Grass is not our top producer of mulch. Leaves are.

We live with three large trees. Trees that tower over the house, and the house stands at three stories tall. Majestic specimens all: oak, maple and hackberry. Mature trees. Trees that knock our use of air conditioning back a bit. I have told my husband many times that when even one of these trees leaves us, I’m calling the movers.

In the last week, two different neighbors have cut down same-size trees. Big ones. Upon seeing their removal – even if watching tree removal after a storm actually, my chest got tight. My palms ached a bit and I beat back tears. I have yet to dig down too deep on these physical reactions to loss to understand myself. Maybe I don’t want to. All I know is that within 24 hours of the second loss I was sitting and looking at my yard, thinking about planting a tree. I felt we needed another. Not we the people in my house, but we the planet.

I guess I’m a tree hugger. Big trees are magic to me. I can remember lying under the huge oak at one of my childhood homes. If offered a wide and dense canopy. I would look up and I was protected by a big green tent. If I heard something overhead or wondered about the sky, I would have to get up and walk away from the tree to see anything at all. Hearing was possible; sight was not.

I have spent the years since I was a political consultant trying to beat back agressive or fevered tendencies in my words and actions. I like to think I’ve calmed a bit. But on the issue of trees, knee jerk reactions are clearly on the rise.

Sloane

 

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Power of Transference

I have never been one for morbid sensibilities. I don’t dwell in sadness, nor do I dabble in unwholesome thoughts. I am not gloomy.

I have never been one for morbid sensibilities. I don’t dwell in sadness, nor do I dabble in unwholesome thoughts. I am not gloomy.

Early this morning, before the sun was up, cancer consumed the life of a friend’s father. I had time last night to hold her and sway a bit in a hug that didn’t want to end. She was moving quickly towards the silences that would come with her father’s death, but we were taking a few more minutes to talk about things that had nothing to do with the tasks at hand. Several good laughs, a few inappropriate comments, a touch of bad behavior and moments of quiet in an overly-bright waiting room.

I have small town ways about me. They have to have come from the branches above me in my family tree, as I was not raised in a small town. One of those “ways” is that I stop for funeral processions. I pull over. No matter what. When they are coming toward me and when they are on my tail. I take these moments for contemplation about the people I have lost in my life. I remember myself in dark and quiet limos. I remember deep sadness and overwhelming relief. I give these moments time, because it’s what I have to give. Time. What can my hurry possibly be that I can’t stop to honor a family in pain? It’s minutes, really. Blinks of an eye.

So, this morning, I took a moment and spent time looking for pictures of my father. He is living with cancer and doing a bang-up job at it. It’s hard, and it will be his forever. My friend’s father has just ended a very short dance with a wicked disease.

I ache for my friend. I can never feel her pain, but, through the power of transference, I can weep for her loss and be there when the smiles return.

“Hold ’em tight,” I said to myself and others this morning. “Time is fleeting.”

Sloane

p.s. Here are photos of my Dad and members of my family over the past year. Some of these I have used in previous blogs, and some I have not.

April 2011
September 2011
Early October 2011
Halloween 2011
Thanksgiving 2011
May 2012
May 2012

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Instagram #6 – New York City

I am having a hard time picking my favorite…

I am having a hard time picking my favorite image from my New York City Instagram images. But, this one is near and dear to my heart.

 

Casey

 

There are other blogs by Casey that feature images from New York City.

 

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Spasmodic Claustrophobia

Years ago I saw a photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge on either its birthday or maybe the day of a marathon. Don’t know. Can’t remember.

Years ago I saw a photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge on either its birthday or maybe the day of a marathon. Don’t know. Can’t remember.

What I do remember is that I was overcome with a touch of claustrophobia. Just sitting there holding the magazine. The photo was majestic and magnificent, but I felt like I was the tiny person in the center of the bridge. Needing help possibly. Panicking maybe.

Today I was waiting for my primary care doctor to enter the not-too-big-not-too-small room for my physical. I waited a while longer than I wanted, but I was holding in there because he is a wonderful doctor and we seem to be on the same wavelength in regards to my health. Besides, I’m not a quitter.

Then, all of a sudden – possibly at minute 27 of the waiting – I needed to get out of the little room. Or at least open the door a wee bit and listen to the hall noise more clearly. The sound of my own increasing heart rate was deafening and not really all that interesting.

So I did just that. I popped the hatch.

I may not be able to control my self-diagnosed “spasmodic claustrophobia” but that crack in the door did more than let in new air. It released my mind.

And the sweet man even knocked before he entered. Dang. I can pick ’em.

Sloane

p.s. This is not the photo from my memory. But it is darn close.

p.p.s I’ve never been to California. The Golden Gate Bridge must be a sight to behold.

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Copyright Casey Simmons and S. Sloane Simmons. People who steal other people's words & thoughts are asshats. Don't be an asshat.