I Might Have Been a Tree, Had Not My Longing Urged Me to Walk

  As I consistently admired trees, I believe that in another life I might have been a rooted tree, listening to the breath of the earth, drinking rain like quiet prayers, standing still while seasons wrapped themselves around my limbs.

Yes, I might have been a tree, had not my longing nudged me gently to walk among them.

I firmly believe that there’s something holy in stillness, in knowing one place deeply, in letting time carve stories into your rings, and just like that I find trees. they grow where they are, rooting deeply and stronger by time, especially in tough times.

But I am not a tree and that is ok.

Within me lives a restless pull, a yearning stitched into bone and breath. It is not simply a desire to move, but a hunger to become—to chase winds, to grow wings, to find pieces of myself scattered across unfamiliar roads. 

The longing to walk is not rebellion. It is remembrance.

Of what?

Of skies I have not yet stood beneath,

of voices I have not yet heard,

of versions of myself that wait on distant shores.

But dare I say, sometimes I ache for roots. I wish for the tree’s belonging, its unwavering patience, its quiet acceptance of place. But my longing to walk stirs like spring beneath my skin, and I must go. 

With all that being said, perhaps we are not meant to choose

between the tree and the traveler.

Perhaps we are both—

with roots we carry in memory,

and wings we unfold in silence.

Yes, I might have been fully a tree in its essence, had not the other half of me urged me to walk. 

Thus, I say I’m half Tree, half Journey.

Written by Nada