A Walk to the Sycamore

I sit on the couch with my legs scrunched under me, twenty minutes into a new book. As I glance up momentarily, my eyes dart to the window and the woods outside. A thought and five minutes later, I have bundled up, tromped across the gravel of our driveway, and disappeared into the woods.

Book tucked under my arm, I follow the path meandering along the bluff and to the creek. Once I turn away from the water and its gentle gurgling, I hop the sagging electric fence and strike out over the resilient thistles and tufts of orchard grass in the neighboring farm's cow pasture. I make a bee-line for the sycamore by the little stream - my sycamore. Its thick, warped trunk juts sideways before sending up three separate branches, forming three perfectly smooth seats. I've come here so often: to pray, to sing, to cry, to pick off bits of bark and throw them into the water and think of nothing.

I choose the middle seat this time, and scramble up onto the wide bench. Stretching out my legs to prop them on a small branch, I dive into a little girl's story and let the world slip away.

As the light grows dim, I pause to survey the sky and gauge how much time is left in the day. The view that meets my eyes is breathtaking. Mist crawls up the banks of the creek and seeps lazily across the fading green grass. A fiery, red-orange sky burns with an intensity that only the sun can manage, turning the leafless trees into stark, skeleton-like silhouettes as dusty purple clouds edge in.

I gaze. The longer I let my mind be idle, the louder I can hear the thud of heavy thoughts, pushing their way to the front of my mind.

No.

I close the book, draw my knees to my chest, and let the tree around me become the living walls of my sanctuary. I thank God for the beauty of a sunset. I watch, blissfully empty, until all that is left of the flaming masterpiece is a fuzzy halo of pink on the tops of the distant mountains.

Sliding off my perch, I stand for a moment and straighten my fuzzy hat, complete with pompom. Then, with a sigh, I head back up the hill - back to life.