The Green, Green Grass

I walk across the green, green grass. It’s nor really my own backyard. It’s not really my own big, big tree. But the space is so full and the green, green grass rolls softly forward in an easy way. The air fills my lungs with the thoughts and the dreams of a child playing outside inside her imagination . I watch the grass as I walk on it gently. It's a need to let the creatures who have a tiny home near my feet to keep a life that remains undisturbed.

A butterfly passes. I smile remembering butterflies I could never catch. Butterfly nets are for catching air.

Hear the music. It’s children laughing. Hear the melody of many families on a picnic. Ah the folks lined up, tossing eggs in a silly contest. I once enjoyed that game and knew the secret to winning. It's a knowing smile that fuels the small dance I do – step across, slide, turn. Spin with my arms out full like a first grader. Eyes are closed to take in the feeling. Face is open and fully toward heaven. Turning, turning, turning.

If I go the other way, I’ll get un-dizzy. I do just that and it works because I believe.

As I get closer to the single tree, I walk more slowly, taking in its majestic silence. Branches so wide that no neighborhood could contain it. A big, big royal tree needs a rolling field to hold court. It deserves nothing less than this a carpet of green, green grass. My mind hears a lawn mower from years ago. I think of spring. Children playing baseball in summer clothes are almost visible out the corner of my eye the second that I imagine them. I hear the crack of the bat on the ball.

I breathe deep like fish, pulling oxygen like water into every cell of me.

Slow walking, slow to the tree walking, I see no cars, no trucks, no machines -- no cell phones, no computers. I like the look of that. I like the cloudless sky and the feeling that time hasn't touched this place.


I meet the tree. I run my fingers up and down the black, black bark of it. I can't help but put myarms around it. I rest my face on the side of the royal majestic tree, the way I once did on the chest of my father when we would talk. Then I sit with my back againt it.

I take out my journal and write for a while.

A place without machines is filled with rainbows, magic, and daydreaming. I find myself in a time machine of wonder.

They say don't chase rainbows. They say magic doesn’t exist. They say daydreaming isn't real.
They don’t about the green, green grass by the tree too big for a neighborhood to contain it.

--me strauss Letting me be