On the Road & Trees

Surrounded by lines, I lose my focus. The friction of rubber against asphalt keeps me awake at times, and hums me into a doze at others. My hands anchor my arms to the steering wheel, letting my elbows swing. Then, I notice, and instead put my wrist at the top of the wheel as my hand hangs down the other side. Like anyone cares. But it looks cooler, so f it. 

Movement is uncomfortable. Leaving what I know and prefer for something mysterious, gives me a feeling of excitement - because I know what I left is a place I can return to again. Driving from state to state, place to place, makes you question. Question the livelihood of every person, town, and billboard you see. From middle fingers thrown out the window to a scoff of disappointment when you realize someone paid money to post a billboard that you disagree with. It makes you criticize people and places. Criticizing their life, their love, and their laughter. 

Eventually, I stop judging myself, and the others that pass - for it is tiring. I stop glaring at the muddy water, and start looking at it. Signs and flags don’t freeze in my gaze, they run through it. And the trees look like they're holding hundred dollar bills at the end of their branches, so I keep on to the next one. 

Green hills and windmills turn into dirty, overflowing rivers. Offering water to the grass, bushes and trees. As the water sits at the root of an old cottonwood, the tree forgets the feeling of thirst. So much so that it can’t get the taste of mud out of her body. But, when the summer heat lifts the water away again, it will remember the water fondly, welcoming its return. Life can never be perfectly comfortable, even if you’re a tree. 

The roots of trees are held underneath the soil by the weight of buildings and roads. Blues music flies through the air and mixes with the smell of barbecue. But the trees still find their way above ground and reach for fresher air. And the rivers hold their ground. Though contained, they flood roads and walkways; humbling us once again. 

Though being a tree seems like a form of imprisonment, I believe if we plant ourselves at their roots, we can learn something. Maybe about ourselves, maybe about others, or about the birds and bugs that use them as their home. The world has gotten itself in a hurry, myself included. So today, I will sit at the root of a tree and admire its strength, age, and silence. 

When I Get to Heaven by John Prine