The sycamore, wendell berry

In the place that is my own place, whose earth
I am shaped in and must bear, there is an old tree growing,
a great sycamore that is a wondrous healer of itself.
Fences have been tied to it, nails driven into it,
hacks and whittles cut in it, the lightning has burned it.
There is no year it has flourished in that has not harmed it.
There is a hollow in it
that is its death, though its living brims whitely
at the lip of the darkness and flows outward.
Over all its scars has come the seamless white
of the bark. It bears the gnarls of its history
healed over. It has risen to a strange perfection
in the warp and bending of its long growth.
It has gathered all accidents into its purpose.
It has become the intention and radiance of its dark fate.
It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable.
In all the country there is no other like it.
I recognize in it a principle, an indwelling
the same as itself, and greater, that I would be ruled by.
I see that it stands in its place and feeds upon it,
and is fed upon, and is native, and maker.

• What is it to flourish, despite the harm that life throws at us? Find your own tree and sit awhile, absorbing her wisdom. Then begin a piece — poetry or prose — with the line, “There is no year I have not flourished.”

• How are you a healer of yourself? Or how would you like to be a healer of yourself? Explore your reflections in your journal.

• What is indwelling in you that is ruled by the same principles as a great tree? How can this shared principle offer you strength and guidance?