Mama Hugger - Tree Hugger

Except for a single curl of hair on her head, my daughter Ayla is my husband's identical twin. Their baby photos are exactly the same. Their minds favor an engineering, mechanical approach to the world around them. They both eat spoonfuls of ketchup all by itself (Yuck! I'm a mustard girl). And they both love loud, fast music.

I thought the genetic contribution of a man and woman to their child was supposed to be 50/50. My daughter is more 98/2. The 2 from me includes the single curl of hair (my head is covered with them) and a passion for trees.

I don't know if she's passionate about trees, and my husband certainly likes them enough, but my daughter does have a strong interest in trees like her mommy.

From trying to reattach fallen branches to trees to touching the bark to moving her arms like she is a tree blowing in the wind to examining leaves to hugging tree stumps once she's climbed up on top of them, Ayla appears to love trees.

If trees are capable of feeling or sensing love, then they certainly attain this emotion from my daughter. I certainly do when she hugs my belly/baby. Her hugs do many things for trees and me, one of them being a healing power. When she wraps her little arms around my strained, tired belly I feel rejuvinated and blessed. I like to think a tree stump may feel the same way when she's laying on top of it, hugging the entire stump.

As a writer-mama, I wonder if I hug my tree stumps, my writing pieces from my past that have been chopped, cut down, and abandoned.

When I go back and read my writing from my childhood, my high school and college years, and my initial start as a full-time writer, I often cringe and feel slightly embarrassed. My writing has come a long way since I was a little girl, but I know I still have a long way to go and a lot more to learn.

Can I hug my tree stump writing pieces?
Or even more important, can I love them?

Tree stumps are like iceburgs, the mass of the tree is invisible above the soil, buried in a network of roots deep underground. Although my writing pieces of the past may be poor, they did establish a root system that has been the foundation of my self as a writer.

From the stumps, I can see my growth as a writer over the years like tree rings marking periods of high rainfall, drought, infestation, and generous growing conditions.

Perhaps I can and do hug my tree stumps. Afterall, they were once glorious trees in my mind just like the trees of my writing today that will one day become tree stumps as my ability as a writer improves.

But my daughter teaches me to love more than just tree stumps. She shows me the importance of also loving the tree's tunk, branches, and leaves; the tree's motion, shade, and spirit; the tree's roots, interactions, and connections.

This is why I hug my daughter whenever I can, all day long. And I'm so lucky that she hugs me back.