Kitty, Your message moved me. Your loss of your loving apple tree is tragic; and I do understand how a tree can be a therapist; this is also true for me. Bless your heart and thanks for taking the time to share your story with me.
I wept as I read this. This was both helpful and poignant. When I moved into subsidized housing, I could no longer talk to my trees, hug them, read a book with my back against the trunk, exchange energy with them, collect the bright leaves in the Fall, but I was blessed to have the only apple tree on the grounds right outside my livingroom window here. We connected, I'm sure, as I gave thanks each season for the apple blossoms, the birds, and the apples. I hung my mother's camel bells and mussel shells on the lower branches. During Covid my window visits with my grandchildren included watching them climb that wild, unpruned tree. My trauma therapist suggested I pretend it was MY tree and even though I wasn't able to hug the tree, I could look out my window and do these same exercises that you describe here. I could feel the energy exchange right through the glass! I named the tree after my trauma therapist and spoke with her often, the tree, for free. Then last year, with no notice and for no known reason, the property manager came at 7 a.m., removed my shells and bells, cut down my 40-year old apple tree with a noisy chain saw, and hauled the branches to the dump. I was so bereft! I wrote a poem about this crushing loss, then posted it, along with an old picture of my tree in mid-November. I've adapted and adjusted, as we've all been forced to do; in fact, the stump has sprouted a dozen little branches, becoming reborn, like me. The picture that you shared in your post was what brought the tears, before I read the text. Maybe it was the ferns growing in the bark of the maple tree. Maybe I just needed something to trigger a good sob session. I feel better now, and you will be on the top of my nightly gratitude list from now on. My trauma therapist, my apple tree's namesake, has been moved to the second place. You are a huge blessing, coming to us through Substack now, when we need you more than ever! May I name my new little apple tree after you, dear Dory?
Kitty, Your message moved me. Your loss of your loving apple tree is tragic; and I do understand how a tree can be a therapist; this is also true for me. Bless your heart and thanks for taking the time to share your story with me.
I wept as I read this. This was both helpful and poignant. When I moved into subsidized housing, I could no longer talk to my trees, hug them, read a book with my back against the trunk, exchange energy with them, collect the bright leaves in the Fall, but I was blessed to have the only apple tree on the grounds right outside my livingroom window here. We connected, I'm sure, as I gave thanks each season for the apple blossoms, the birds, and the apples. I hung my mother's camel bells and mussel shells on the lower branches. During Covid my window visits with my grandchildren included watching them climb that wild, unpruned tree. My trauma therapist suggested I pretend it was MY tree and even though I wasn't able to hug the tree, I could look out my window and do these same exercises that you describe here. I could feel the energy exchange right through the glass! I named the tree after my trauma therapist and spoke with her often, the tree, for free. Then last year, with no notice and for no known reason, the property manager came at 7 a.m., removed my shells and bells, cut down my 40-year old apple tree with a noisy chain saw, and hauled the branches to the dump. I was so bereft! I wrote a poem about this crushing loss, then posted it, along with an old picture of my tree in mid-November. I've adapted and adjusted, as we've all been forced to do; in fact, the stump has sprouted a dozen little branches, becoming reborn, like me. The picture that you shared in your post was what brought the tears, before I read the text. Maybe it was the ferns growing in the bark of the maple tree. Maybe I just needed something to trigger a good sob session. I feel better now, and you will be on the top of my nightly gratitude list from now on. My trauma therapist, my apple tree's namesake, has been moved to the second place. You are a huge blessing, coming to us through Substack now, when we need you more than ever! May I name my new little apple tree after you, dear Dory?
Thank you ❤️