The Birch tree stands at the top of our garden, and I love that tree. It is pretty all year round.
When my cat died, I went and talked to the Birch.
I was having difficulty talking to anyone else, partly because if I tried I would start to cry, and partly because for four months I could not bear anyone to say his name.
He became ‘he’.
So I talked to the Birch.
The Birch probably hated my cat, hated me, and was glad he was dead.
Every day, my cat went up to the top of the garden, to the Birch, and used the tree to sharpen his claws.
He would dig his claws deep into the bark, and then haul them out, repeatedly.
Then he would hug the trunk, before running off.
But somehow, because he had gone there every day, I thought the Birch knew him, and was the only tree that did.
He left the other trees alone.
Over the years, I do these things which seem silly to others no doubt, and even to me on saner days.
Nature has become my go to place.
One, it is difficult to talk to people, they lose patience. They want us to ‘get over it’.
It is very difficult to find a good therapist.
So I go into Nature.
I sit there, and I expound to the trees, or the birds, or the ocean.
I have entire one-sided conversations, convinced that the flower or Birch has a soul, and can understand every word I say.