A Window in the Wood

Didn’t matter that the cliff it grew on cracked beneath it, or the wind hit it harder during storms like it had a score to settle. This tree didn’t care for soil to grow in or soft meadows on sunny days. It was stubborn, and it had to be to survive.

While others stood tall, this one was knarly and grew in every direction. Turned back in on itself. It looked broken, and it wasn’t. It was bracing.

It grew sideways and then down, gripping earth like it meant something. Limbs gnarled, bark split, roots exposed—but not weak. Just honest.

Storm after storm, it stayed. Rain carved gullies around it. Ice snapped limbs nearby. Whole trunks fell like dominoes some winters. Not this one. This one learned the rhythm of survival: bend, lock in, don’t let go.

And in the middle of all that chaos, something strange happened. A hollow opened in its frame. A window. Pure accident or small miracle, no one knows.

But if you stand at the right angle—
and the light hits just right—
you’ll see through to the other side.

And it almost feels like the tree wants you to.