Liz's Tree

    Today my kind friend Liz showed all the girls at my lunch table a beautiful drawing of a tree. What she can do with colored pencils is ultimately astounding! I swear that she is the most talented, creative, sweet, most intelligent person I know.  She then proceeded to casually ask me what the hidden meaning of the picture was. (It turns out that the answer to what I assumed was a riddle was "there is no meaning" in the end, but that is currently unimportant.) Of course, I responded to her question with my classic "my brain does not work that way, sorry" because I didn't want anyone to laugh at my whole philosophical speech that I had on the tip of my tongue. Yes, I know what you are thinking. (I hate using that phrase because there is no way for me to actually know unless I had some pretty kick-ass super powers, but today is the exception.) Why would I act so inane? Well, what would you do in front of a group of your peers who pride themselves at picking out all your insecurities? That is why I hid my thoughts even from Liz, one of two people besides myself at the table who would respect what I had to say.

    The drawing of the tree represented something far beyond eraser marks and Crayola's colored pencils. It meant to me that there is still good in this world even as we are surrounded by hatred, war, and fear. There is hope that we can sustain the little piece of happiness left in the world; we can grow up knowing right from wrong. There is still a glimmer of hope shining through all the madness that is evil. Even the tiny bird in the drawing had a meaning. It represents the hope that one day everyone can finally be free, whether freed from the cruelty that is slavery, or from the political chains that hold back free speech. Everyone will be free to dance in the streets and cry tears of joy instead of despair. Everyone will be free to scream the truth until their lungs throb instead of speaking it in hushed whispers. 

    The way the branches seemed to resemble a hand grasping the leaves reminded me of how some of us tiny human beings in such a big universe still struggle to grasp the truth that even the child inside every single one of us must grow up eventually. No matter how hard we try to let go of our blankies (metaphorically or literally), there is always the little kid inside trying to yell with every ounce they have left "Mommy, Mommy! Please! Stop!," and as it  disappears into our memories, we find ourselves whimpering, "...now I have no one left who loves me. Now I'm alone." And Liz, if you are reading this, now you know what the drawing meant to me.