To My Young Daughter on Arbor Day Dear Sprout: When you were just a tiny seed, dropped into the darkness, I could not see you. For what felt like a very long time, I could not sense your presence: whether you were thriving, whether you had found nourishment or if you were growing at all. Those were hard days for me. And now here you are and I can see you right before my eyes: small and defenseless but gorgeous and rising upwards towards the sun and the sky and taking breath. I made you and here you are. I picked this spot for you, you know. I held on to you as long as you needed me to, and when a soft wind blew on a certain night, I let you go. If you look above and around you, you will see why I chose this place for you. The old Bur Oaks, resistant to prairie fire, stand proudly around us, having seen more than anybody else has seen. The American Lindens, who clone themselves like Aspen trees, hold the ground together with their tight-knit families. The soil is rich with life, like ours and unlike ours: creating, rebuilding, chattering, pollinating, scavenging, singing, rustling. This patch where you will grow has just enough sunlight in the spring to make you strong before the Honey Locusts grow their big leafy fronds and stream out the hot summer sun. I spend a lot of time thinking about what you will become, Sprout. In some ways, we have no choice. If I am a maple, you are a maple. If I am an oak, you are an oak. But whether you will twist towards the east because an unexpected source of light will move you thus, I cannot say. Will you house another species in harmony, maybe owls or a fox den? Or will you be bogged down by a parasitic vine and struggle to heal yourself? I can't predict the things that will happen to you in your lifetime, Sprout. I cannot tell you whether you will grow to be flexible, with low-lying branches for children to climb, like your father, or whether you will endure hardship that will make you strong and will drive you to love fiercely and with conviction, like me. And one day, Sprout, I will die. I don't want you to be afraid of it, because everything dies and death is beautiful. When I go down, a swath of sunlight will open up in the forest and allow other seeds, who have been patiently awaiting their turn, to grow. Upon me, mushrooms and beetles will feast and I will, myself, become the soil that gives life to others. A nursery log is one that has decayed to the point where the inside is so rich that it is growing multiple plants upon what was once its bark. It is a very special role for an old tree, and it blends with my dream to support many lives within the span of my own. But right now, Sprout, the most important life to me is yours. I look around us and I am grateful for the shade of the elders, the buzzing of the bees, the burping of the bullfrogs, the slithering rain that makes channels in the deep dark soil made of those who came before us. I see other sprouts beginning to peek above the fallen leaves of winters past and I wonder what your world will look like when you reach my height. My hope is that it will be as comfortable and loud and crazy and filled with joy and wonder and love as it is now, because that is why I brought you here to grow. Love, Mama
Author: Alex Aspiazu Martin First read aloud on April 14, 2013 to the congregation of the First Unitarian Church of Omaha