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For over four billion years trees have been the guardians of Mother Earth. Tempered by growth, wizened with age, they follow Father Time in his steady pace. Fiery tempests strike lightening into the hearts of forests, burning acre after acre until the scorched land releases smoky cries into wailing winds.
Renewal. The cycle of life.
No such cycle exists for man. We are born, and we live, and we die. Some of us are forged in battle, blessed with strength and tenacity. Few are imbued with the gift of extra sensory perception, sight for the future or an ear for the tune of nature. For those like me, those who can breach the void between believing and knowing, the ache of belonging is exquisite.
Standing atop the bell tower overlooking a Spanish forest, I give myself over to that longing. The trees, tempered by growth, wizened with age, forgive me.