About Time

Below is a composition of excerpts from one of my college essays that I later elongated both to better describe my relationship with a tree and also to practice writing. Probably still very rough around the edges. But today has been critical for me; I am in the process of regaining an understanding of who I used to be and discovering who I am. The first thing I thought to read was this essay. Sometimes things happen that you can't control and are forced to permit and accept, even if they are sickening and feel wrong. Before I can address those things however, I need to deal with the blow they've taken to my identity as seen by those that I care about and value the most. I think it's about time I self-evaluate.

White and golden roots grip the sloping mud of a dark, forbidden soil. Its contrasting hue and magnitude tempt me to disregard my hesitation and succumb to the pleasure of exploring the only unknown part of the familiar creek and woods it belonged to. Rays of light slicing the air magnify its bulky, hunky branches that both praise the sky and reach out to me. But this tree is native to a foreign loam, on land that is not my family’s, and grows barely past my grasp. Oddly enough, no life is visible near the site; no bugs are going about their daily chores innocent of the terrifying and wondrous anomaly shading them. Even the raccoons and foxes stay away, sensing their intrusion upon the tree’s hallowed ground. The tree stands barren and supreme.

For years, I too, never dared to touch the tree. Every time I have taken a moment to leave the warmth of my grandparent’s house for the intriguing company of this tree, the image of it has been the same—flaky golden bark enveloping the most magnificent tree. Yet something threatening about its unknowns hovered in my mind, reinforced by the rule not to cross the creek. During brave moments, I would leave my gazing spot, a safe distance away, and cautiously approach it, gradually closing the gap between us until my conscience got the better of me. I would go so far as to feel the trickle of the creek’s water peek up and tickle my toes. However, for a reason beyond my comprehension, the last time I went, something changed. Not the image of the tree, but me.

         Perhaps it was the dawning realization that I have a limited number of times with the tree, for, as I grow older and leave to pursue my life as a young woman, my grandparents become weaker and I am unsure of what will become of their home. Maybe I was finally giving into my curiosity after years of feeling restrained. Whatever the reason, the day of my grandmother’s birthday celebration this past October, I broke The Rule. I waited until my brother was out of sight before rushing over. Stepping across the cold mud onto the hallowed ground with an outstretched arm, I stared up into the hollows of the tree and felt the entity for the first time.