Every year, the bark of the tree builds up, repairing the damage from the previous season. Every year the wind blows sand and debris against the bark. Other trees fall on it. Fire. Rain. Snow. It all creates an onslaught that is determined to diminish the protective power of the bark. The bark protects the life of the tree, keeps the moisture from evaporating and drying out, protects the fragile inner layers of life. The bark must be able to withstand the passion of mother nature. The bark must be resilient. It must be stronger, it must grow more each year than what nature takes from it.
I feel as if every year, I barely recover from the damage before I have to repair my hope for the onslaught of the coming year. There never seems to be enough time to repair, enough down-time, enough hope stored up. I had so much hope when I was a child. I smiled a lot in pictures, I made up songs in the shower, I stood on the front lawn and waved at cars driving down the street, I climbed magnolia trees and jumped off of roofs believing I was indestructible.. Despite the mental illness that I battled at a young age, I believed in the goodness of life, that somehow it was all going to turn out okay.
Constant wind, the rain of mental illness, the fire of bad choices, they have all taken their toll on me. I wouldn�t mind a bit of a dry season, a chance for my hope to grow lush again. But in lieu of that, I surround myself with other trees, life is easier when you face it in a group.
