At the park near my home in Georgia grows a towering oak tree I often visit at the end of the day, when I feel weary. When I reach it, I run my hands over its rough gray fissured bark. I walk a circle around it, imagining its roots winding through the earth below. It is magnificent, this oak tree, and nothing at all like me. Its bark is utterly strange against my own skin. Its roots that hold steadfast in the soil are not like my wandering, restless feet. I tilt my head back to take in its vaulted, spacious canopy, its long curving limbs. Up there, with its thousand spreading leaves, the tree performs a feat I could never hope to accomplish. ….[READ]
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