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How lovely it is to think that somewhere in the world, deep in a lush forest untouched by human hands, there stands a tree—a quiet companion to your journey. On the day you entered this world, that tiny sprout pushed through the earth just as your lungs filled with your first breath.
Miles apart, you and your tree have grown—your limbs stretching toward the sky, swaying with the wind, weathering the seasons. Your branches strengthen. Your roots deepen. And your presence, like the tree’s, quietly sustains the world around you. Without realizing it, you offer refuge to friends and smiles to strangers, just as your tree does—its grooved highways guiding ants on their travels, its sturdy arms cradling the delicate blue eggs of a nesting bird, its rustling leaves a playground for spiraling squirrels, their bushy tails flicking against your chlorophyll-filled canopy. With every passing spring, a new ring forms around your core—a quiet testament to all you've endured, each layer holding wisdom, wonder, and the beauty of imperfection. Thunderstorms come and go, bending your boughs and testing your spirit, but still, you stand. And when the petrichor haze fills the air, when the golden light filters through your dew-dropped leaves, you welcome it, letting the warmth and breath of the earth photosynthesize your soul. How lovely it is to know that you are never alone. Somewhere, in the heart of deep and dreamy jungles, there are trees—hundreds, maybe thousands—growing with you, standing with you, breathing with you. Rooted in different soil but bound by the same air, the same sun, the same rhythm of life. We are all one. Closed eyes, electromagnetic waves of blue flickering behind my lashes—gentle pulses glowing inside my mind. Humming vibrations, stirring memories like sharp pine needles caught in a spiraling current. The past rises, restless as dry leaves lifted by the wind, spinning in each shallow breath of grief before settling back to the earth. Energy fertilizes deeply planted seeds with an earthy exhale, the scent of damp soil and weathered bark wrapping around each inhale, grounding, softening.
A quiet pulse, a shifting rhythm. A subtle illumination stretching beyond the edges of thought, casting with it warmth and affirmation, a reminder that stillness is not stagnation—it's renewal. Tones move like whispers, traveling through marrow and memory. Dissolving tension, loosening the knots of the past, clearing space for new roots to take hold. Dirt does not resist the rain—it softens, drinks, transforms. Healing is not erasure—it's blending each drop of awareness, sinking in, nourishing, becoming. A river finding its way home. |
Sara CifaniTrauma is not stored as a narrative with an orderly beginning, middle, and end. Writing WorkshopsArchives
April 2025
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