These Trees Have Known Storms

Today, I'm celebrating 5 years of sobriety.

I'm sitting on my sun porch with the windows open in a hoodie and shorts, savoring the breeze. The trees around me at eye-level seem almost overgrown, but in the best way possible. They're not unkempt, unsightly, or haggard. Not even close, actually. They're full, brimming with luscious greens and yellows. The wind's lolling through and the leaves are spry enough to dance when called upon without making a scene.

I'm looking around and I realize I've never really observed them this closely. It kind of feels like they filled in overnight, but they've been standing guard like that ever since I moved in. And, the more I slow down to pay attention, the more I can hear the life bursting from them with each subtle ruffle. These trees have known storms—long, callous winters and sopping springs, and summers that swelter. Yet, they stand firm;  sturdy and unencumbered. Season after season, they keep growing.

Aware of my own staring, I draw a long inhale of my own and lean back into the bench cushions. The afternoon sun's beaming. In many ways, today's a pretty big milestone for me. At the same time, it feels like just another day.

Maybe that's the whole point.

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Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
272/365

When's the last time you really looked at just how much you've changed?

onward.

For more on this daily column and The MAP Year Project, read the backstory here. And if you know someone who'd appreciate this, pass it along.