Where the Trees Remember Me

There’s a path not far from my home, a winding ribbon of earth lined with trees that seem older than time itself. I walk there most mornings, barefoot when I can, letting the moss and soil speak to the soles of my feet. The air smells like memory: damp bark, wildflowers still holding the dreams of night, and the faintest whisper of pine.

This is where I go when my mind feels cluttered. When the noise of the world, the shoulds and musts and why-aren’t-you’s, drowns out my own inner voice. The trees never ask anything of me. They just are. Rooted. Reaching. Breathing in stillness and exhaling grace.

I like to stand with my back against the broad chest of an old oak, eyes closed, palms open. I imagine its roots tangled with mine beneath the soil. I imagine the way its rings carry years of wind, drought, and golden days — and still it grows. That is what they teach me, day after day: grow quietly, even through storms.

Sometimes I talk to them. Not in words, but in feelings. I bring my questions, my aching heart, my half-formed poems. I let them rest in the cradle of their branches. In return, they offer silence. Not empty silence, but the kind that hums with life — a lullaby of rustling leaves, creaking limbs, and birdsong stitched with light.

Flowers nod gently as I pass, as if reminding me of beauty in the smallest things. A soft petal. A single bee. A dandelion unapologetically wild.

Nature doesn’t ask for perfection. She doesn’t rush. She cycles, she sheds, she blooms again. And in her rhythm, I remember how to breathe. I remember that it's okay to pause, to listen, to let go.

And it’s always after these walks — when my hands are still scented with lavender or linden leaves, when my skin holds the kiss of wind — that I write best. As if the trees have lent me their language for a while. As if the stories hidden in bark and blossom have found their way into my fingers.

Nature is my sanctuary, my medicine, my muse.

The trees remind me who I am: not a machine to produce, but a soul to feel. A heart that grows toward light.

And every time I return to them, I find myself again.

Simona 🦋

If my poems and stories truly touch your heart,
would you consider fluttering a little magic my way
by buying me a coffee?
It helps me keep writing,
keep dreaming,
keep letting these butterfly wings of mine flutter through stardust and ink.