I have always especially loved dancing trees.
I love the way they stand together in a perpetual dip on the dance-floor of the forest, limbs entwined.
I love the way they lean into one another, pressing not so hard as to topple the other, but giving one another the gift of supporting the respective weight of the other.
I love that they eventually grow into one another so completely that there is truly no place where he stops and she begins. They become one organism. Their very roots entangling and intermingling.
I love that they can be flexible enough to sway delicately in the breeze in their perpetual dance, yet stay solid enough to withstand the storms that blow up around them.
I love that they shelter one another, holding the other up against the wind, the rain, the seasons.
Husband and I have been married only a little over three years. We are mere saplings. However, already in small ways we are growing together.
Our roots were laid down together that day in June, and though geographically they move often from place to place, already they are taking deep in the solid ground that matters.
In the three short years we’ve been married, we’ve had to lean into one another as weather crashed around us fast and furious.
We are learning to bend together with the winds of change, the rains of uncertainty, the storms of loss. We stand solid–sheltering one another, holding fast together, being shade for the other.
I hope that we will continue to become like those dancing trees, our creaking limbs perpetually intertwined. I hope that our very roots will one day intermingle. I hope that we will continue to grow together so that there is no telling where he ends and she begins.
And we, too, will be one.