When life begins to unravel at the edges, I want the trees.
Not the deep forest trees people imagine in fairy tales. I mean the ones that grow here, in Mexico, that belong to the Mother is a very intimate way.
These trees survive sun and salt, dust, and fire. The ones that refuse to disappear, even when the land tests them. Their roots are stubborn. Their wisdom is old. Their presence feels like a pulse I can lean my body against.
I crave the way they listen.
I stand with my palms on the warm bark and I let myself speak the things I cannot say inside a house. The trees do not judge. They do not hurry. They do not ask me to be softer or smaller. They just hold what I offer and pull it down into the earth like a secret being composted into something useful.
There is a quiet power in that. A kind of grounding that feels like being remembered.
The trees here understand survival. They understand storms. They understand what it means to keep reaching upward even in a place where the water is unpredictable and the winds change without apology.
So when I touch them, something in me steadies. Something in me remembers I am built of the same ancient elements.
I crave the way my breath slows when I am near them. It happens without effort. As if they are teaching me how to return to myself. As if they are reminding me that grounding is not a technique. It is a birthright.
The wind begins to move through the branches, and I can feel my truth being carried out into the wide, breathing body of nature. Not erased. Not silenced. Circulated. The land knows what to do with a human heart that is too full. It has been doing this far longer than we have been trying to hold everything alone.
Sometimes I rest my forehead against a trunk and let the earth’s steadiness rise through me. The message is always the same.
You belong to the earth.
You belong to the breath.
You belong to yourself.
And in that moment, I believe it again.
The light shifts. The air softens. The world feels possible.
