Stepping Westward


watching trees by lakeI feel the land with my eyes, with my sense of balance, with all the details of how a breeze picks up perfumes off a hillside, the way a cloud is caught on the needles of a pine tree and is torn into mist, how wheat is grown in crescents along the slope of an ancient ash mound . . . I wonder sometimes at the me that never grew because I grew here and not somewhere else, the me that would have grown elsewhere in place of the self I became. –Sallie Tisdale, Stepping Westward, 1991