I have been thinking obsessively lately about bristlecone pines. Fascinating topic, I know.
Ryan and I had the rare treat this weekend of escaping for a few days almost completely sans munchkins. Cannon decided he simply would not be left out of the action and brought his desire to fruition by simply refusing to drink anything out of a bottle. Ever. Under any circumstances. Even to save his own precious life.
The weekend was spent leisurely exploring and reacquainting ourselves with who we are behind all the children. It boggles my mind how easy it is to forget how to give of myself to my husband amidst the never ending stream of dishes, laundry, church obligations, and homework assignments. I swear, the days, weeks and months of my life could be measured by the cycle of the dishwasher and the washing machine. Really fulfilling stuff.
During our hours of meandering, we did something that I have been wanting to do for years but have never found the time. We took a tour of the roof of the Conference Center in Salt Lake City. I know that this reveals how much of a tragic nerd I really am, but it's been working for me for 33 years now, so I am just going to continue rolling with it. Judge not that ye be not judged.
Anyway, during our tour, which was conducted by a darling grandma with a head full of the kind of historical facts that make my little heart go pitter-pat, she explained to us the vegetation that was used in the landscaping of the roof. I was transformed to a mountain side with quaking aspens, blue spruce, and yellow meadow grass dotted with wild flowers and flowing streams instead of where I really was, which was atop a 4 story building in the middle of the down town center of a major U.S. city.
As she explained the details of one particular type of tree, I couldn't help but feel a draw to it, as if we were siblings born of the same parents who reunite after a long separation. I wanted to approach it (very tentatively of course, because I struggle to put myself out there in new relationships), and introduce myself. I wanted to sit under its branches and listen to it tell the story of what it has seen and experienced. I felt like we share a similar existence.
The bristlecone pine grows in isolation just below the tree line. It grows in soil that is too hostile for most other plants to survive, so it lives its life mostly alone. But that's okay. It seems to like the extra space. Because of cold temperatures, high winds, dry soils, and short growing seasons, it grows extremely slowly, almost imperceptibly. The outer protective layer, its wood, is so dense that it makes it almost impervious to disease, harsh climates, fungi, and insects. The trees longevity is due in part to this dense protective layer.
Oh.My.Gosh. Looking at that scrubby, scraggly, wind beaten, darn ugly tree was like looking in a mirror. And as all moments of self realization do, it taught me something very valuable about myself as I reflected on it. I often find myself just inside the circle of socialization, barely doing enough to maintain relationships and get to know new people. The environment I create around me may not be considered hostile (though I would be lying if I said it never was), but most often isn't very warm and fuzzy. While this may lend to lonely moments, I am used to it and even find comfort in its familiarity at times. I am capable of learning and growth, and if you look at the current product compared to the one from many years ago, the difference is noticeable. But, if you look at the day to day, week to week, and month to month growth pattern, it is quickly evident that I am on the slow train to becoming what I need to become. That's okay. "Slow and steady wins the race" has always been my motto. Unless I am rolling so slowly that I actually start rolling backwards but never notice the change in direction. That's been known to happen. I have built an impenetrable outer layer to protect me from the fungi of this world. (You KNOW you know someone who fits this description). It protects me from pain, betrayal, embarrassment, loss, and just plain making a stupid fool of myself, which happens more than I care to admit. It is this very shell that has allowed me to make it this far intact. A little beat up, but still smiling.
I have often thought of these attributes of mine as something to be ashamed of, something that I needed to work on to become my best self. But as I listened to our tour guide delve into the details of this unassuming little tree, I could hear a sense of wonder and pride in her voice at what it was capable of and what it must have seen and endured during its lifetime And I thought "Yea. She's right"! So, here's to being proud of who I am and making the most of the God-given attributes I came with.
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