I know, your parents told you "Nothing is Promised to you in Life," and/or "Nothing in Life is Free," right? Well, my mother had a different opinion. Mama always told me I could do anything I wanted. In turn, amidst my first pregnancy, I held down a full time job and a full night class schedule. I thought a lot about what I really wanted to do with my life while anticipating the arrival of my baby boy. For instance, if I intended to tell him "Son, you can do anything you set your mind to in this life," would I be telling the truth? Was I, in fact, doing exactly what I wanted to do with my life? No. At the time, I was not.
Thus my writing career was reborn after a 10 year hiatus. I had the opportunity to stay at home with my then seven month old son and I fully intended to Show him How Anything is Possible! Missouri is the Show Me State. That's when I picked up my notebook, dusted it off, and began writing seriously in 2002. To prove it, here is a much more current piece I wrote for my writer's group assignment recently. I hope you like it.
Tree Spirits
By Elisa Mendoza Gilliland
Standing; waiting. The wind blows through my bare branches in fall. Life-giving rays of sunlight permeate my thick outer skins, energizing the deep ridges. My small sprout fingers sway back and forth, collecting carbon dioxide where it is most necessary.
Vibrations around me signal the harvest time is ending all will be done. On my side is the wheat field. On the other is a garden where the boy works to protect me everyday. Pulling weeds that wrap around my roots, stealing moisture from the ground, the boy is attentive. Planting acorns along the wheat fields this year, my crop has reached into the thousands. Climbing high upon my thick trunk and through my sturdy branches, the boy keeps me well pruned, preparing me to grow stronger still. He builds supports for my spreading canopy. He chops branches with no more use so my whole can thrive forever.
Older than his days, I am known from centuries past. The patter of man surrounded me once chanting ancient names. When blood was spilled around my trunk, soaking deep into the soil, my roots gathered new minerals. The knowledge of man invades me through this thick liquid vein. I know not when I became aware only that now I have a record aside my inner rings.
I have no eyes to see, nor ears to hear, I do not taste or smell. All I am is all I have but I do feel the world outside and all within. My power is strength and I have passed it on. My weakness is relying on man to supply me with proper podzol and the knowledge-granting blood.
The old ones would ask me for rain clouds and sun. These things I cannot do. Still they ask, and sacrifice their young, creating a god of me. Suddenly, the winds of change blew thunderous gusts and howls as the old ones lay dying beneath my vibrant shelter. They beg of me to take their souls, for without me they are lost.
I as well, felt the loss of my keepers and my collects became scarce. Even this did not stop me from growing. Whether I yield for man made no difference to the young ones who survived. Their foster and care brought my leaves back to splendor. My flowers reached the thousands and my crops grew twice in number each year I drank innocent blood.
The boy is the last of the keepers of the tree spirits. I amass and disperse through each nubbin that matures in the fall. My time is short, I can feel the evil stalking me, and betrayers of their own religion are to destroy me in fire. With the boy I give healing to the weakness that man bore him. I have no ears yet give the def hearing. In turn the boy gives me more blood. I am secure with my seedlings planted safely in the fields. In spite of man, I will live on forever.
TAKEN from Memoirs of The Chopping Tree
by Elisa Mendoza
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