While walking one day a friend and I came upon a tree with paper-like bark and remarked at how sad it is when the bark is stripped from a tree that it dies. We moved on to talking about wrinkles and age, and how in The Golden Key by George MacDonald, the older a person is, the more beautiful he or she becomes [i'll write more on that later]. However, we both resolved to write the story of a tree stripped of her bark.
This is mine...
She calls him deeper
The boy with the dark black curls
To play in the woods
To be lost in her branches
To see her amongst the host of trunks and leaves.
He hears the call and steps in
Tender feet crunch leaves and twigs
And he touches her bark and peers deeply
The mountain calls him higher
The man with the dark black curls, now masked with grey
His weary eyes peer down at the old parchment
They said he’d never find it
But now he must, else she dies.
The boy reaches his hand out
Peels back the bark from her branch
Reluctantly it lets go and her pure, smooth bark shines
His breath quickens, heart pounds
Twigs crack at slow, retreating footsteps
He cannot read the map for the shaking of his weathered hands
As hers so often do
No longer does she embroider, her hand too unsteady to thread a needle
Her face weathered, her body weary
Yet her face smiles with deep beauty and her clouded eyes blanket her dear ones
But he cannot see it.
Her brilliance pulls the boy back and he is drawn
The bark tears more easily now
Turning it over and over in his hand
Brushing the soft wood with his young fingers.
She pleads with him to stop,
The layers protect what is precious within
But he cannot hear it.
The crest of the mountain disappears behind in the mist
The mist that flows down the crevices and valleys
Down to the lake.
It’s surface smooth, perfectly reflecting the barkless trees that surround
Flawless.
She had asked him to stay…not to go on this journey
But he didn’t hear her.
The man approaches the water,
Dips his hand cautiously and rejoices.
The boy drops the bark and walks towards her
His lust for the smoothness blinds him
He rips the bark away, strips her
Poping and cracking
Insects that took refuge within her flee
New twigs are ripped off, cut short by the violence
He peels her layers away, driven by the trunk beneath.
She pleads with him to stop, but he cannot hear
He is fixed upon her.
The man stumbles through the door and offers her the water
She reaches her hand out to him and accepts it.
Poping and cracking echoes through the house
Wrinkles that took refuge within her flee
Her face pulled taut, the skin flat across her face
The bark is completely stripped away,
He steps back and sees the smooth wood beneath.
He steps back and looks at her face
Weariness has gone and youth has returned
She lowers her eyes, ashamed, exposed
As her wisdom turns brown and falls to the ground
Her eyes harden, the compassion given from years of life has fled.
The gentle touch and knowing caress leave her now supple hands
The gentle tremor in her voice vanishes
And her youth shines forth.
The tree shivers and wind blows against it
The boy is gone and she is
Dead.
The man steps back and walks away
Her husband is gone and she is
Dead.
This past semester has been trying to say the least. I have been truly tested in my faith in God. I used to think that I trusted in God...until I realized I didn't. Have you ever had one of those moments when you were certain you could do something, knew how to handle it perfectly [or at least sufficiently] only to realize that you couldn't do so at all? It's one of those moments like when you were in Kindergarten and the 3rd graders were all going across the monkey bars and you know for a fact you can do it too. So you climb the ladder and reach your tiny hand to grab ahold of the first bar. You grip tightly. Confidence rises...you know that you can do it. You swing forward onto your next hand, you've got this. Another hand and it keeps going...but suddenly your strength begins to fail. Your fingers slip. Stubbornly you try to grip tighter, but it's too late. You feel sick as the bar begins to slip away. Your feet kick, as if they can help to push you back up. But no use. Finger by finger you slip. Shame washes over you before your last finger even slips from the bar. Your eyes are hot with unshed tears. And then the fall. Hardly noticeable. The pain from the fall is nothing compared to the overwhelming shame and guilt. Then you run. Run from the embarrassment. Run to save face as best you can. Run to feel your shame alone.
While walking one day a friend and I came upon a tree with paper-like bark and remarked at how sad it is when the bark is stripped from a tree that it dies. We moved on to talking about wrinkles and age, and how in The Golden Key by George MacDonald, the older a person is, the more beautiful he or she becomes [i'll write more on that later]. However, we both resolved to write the story of a tree stripped of her bark. 
