Woodland

Once, someone said they loved me the way they loved the woods. They said the woods were wild and so was I. How the woods were always there for them, and so was I. How the woods waited and watched for them. Just like I did. Untamable, neither good nor bad, present and silent and constant.

Nature takes her course and her season. The leaves grow strong and green through spring only to color, fall and die in the autumn. She waits silently through winter to stretch herself towards the sky and deeper in and across the earth. Vines and moss, brush, branch, bush and flower. We too have our seasons of love and loss. Grief, joy, death and birth. We too live in circles of love and loss. Sometimes it feels like more one than the other.

I know that what he was saying was a compliment. He loved the woods. He grew up in them. But re-reading that letter, now makes me feel sad. How selfish does that sound? Someone romantically compares me to the woods and I complain?

Trust me I am not complaining. I still think it is very sweet. I still appreciate what he was saying. I still see the beauty in the thought.

But I can’t but wonder about the comparison: is it possible to love me just the way I am? Just love be because I am. And not because I remind them of something else.