The Blog I Never Use

When we moved from Paradise to Milwaukie, we left behind the joys of childhood, the thrill of adventure, and an unfinished tunnel to china we had begun to excivate using garden trowels. In return for my greatest joys and dreams, I found a tree and a pole.

The rusty old pole, the lone survivor of a forgotten age when wind roamed freely on the earth and dryed those garments suspended between her and her long-forgotten partner, before the light of progress pushed them aside.

The tree was dark and intimidating at first: a blackwalnut apparently cold and severe, but for his closeness to the cedar that held him tight. I often spent the afternoon in his branches, a shelter from the noise and silence below, and from the rain, for a while at least.

The greatest gift of that kind old tree was not the spiritual retreat of his branches, but the branches themselves. It is the service of the pole, though, more intimate and enabling than the simple loss of a limb, that carried me through the age of abusive peers and insensative teachers, to stand on this side, bruised and scared, but strong.

For years she stood, my demons' proxy, as I struggled through the pain. My ritual beatings left her marked, but never dented by countless blows with branches, the sacrifice of the tree. All my fears, my angers, focused -- swinging, smashing, till at last they broke, leaving me worn and panting, but stronger than before, still hurting, but moving on.

So, my friend, keep on swinging, with all your pain, and hurt, and fear, and may tomorrow find you moving on, healing, changing, a better you, scars and all.

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