The Tree

The Tree

The tree,
deformed and
scarred by life,
did not choose the ground
where it would grow.

The tree,
whose seed was put there
or fell there
in that barren, rocky place,
was forced to struggle.

The tree,
branches at odd angles
like arms pleading help,
was alienated amongst
buildings and concrete.

The tree,
arching backward,
peeled back its skin,
exposing the black cavity
within its twisted trunk.

The tree,
a monument
to the will to survive,
stands graceful
in its death.

By Linda Hanson – 2001

I sketched this tree and wrote this poem while sitting in a parking area in front of an arts center waiting for my daughters to finish a class. Often I am unable to tolerate being inside a building for more than a very short time because of my reaction to fluorescent lighting. Not only do I jerk and make noises when exposed to fluorescent lighting, but the sound of the lighting is often overbearing. Fluorescent lights have an effect on my brain that takes hours to recover from if the exposure is more than a few minutes. So I try to minimize exposure and spend lots of time waiting outside. If I have paper and a pen, waiting outside is not difficult at all because I can enjoy the clean air and whatever there is to see, even if it is a dead tree.

Although I had not yet been diagnosed with autism at the time I wrote this poem, I had been living with it my entire life. Much like the tree, I did not choose my circumstances in life. I could only make the best of the circumstances I was born into, even when it was a struggle.