Life is messy.
Trees are messy.
They have cracks,
they’re sticky with sap,
and their leaves have rips and plenty of imperfections.
Their leaves make a mess on the ground every winter,
the wet and smelly dirt in which their roots grow
contains millions of worms and insects.
Birds sit on the their branches
and leave their messy traces of nests and waste.
Trees are curvy and spiny and wonky and obscure.
And yet, when we really look at them,
why is every tree also so perfect?
We never ask trees if they would grow just a little bit taller
or produce leaves with less imperfections.
Trees have always been accepting of us, too,
maybe thinking of us as perfect as well.
They never tell us to leave the comfort of their shade
since they enjoy the company, too.
They never tell the messy birds to leave their branches;
they are free to sit and use them as pedestals for their songs
since the tree gets to listen, too.
Trees leave their leaves on the ground for us to play in
and so that in the following year they can use the remnants to grow even bigger and brighter leaves
not for any other reason
than just to be beautiful.
Trees are messy, but they are just right.
I guess the most beautiful things in this world are simply messy.
And when we finally just let go and hug that tree
and tightly wrap our arms around it
and get sap in our hair
and dirt on our clothes,
we start to see the sap and dirt and mess
that’s within all of us as well.
Ali Walks Around 