I was returning home from lunch on an otherwise uneventful Friday last week. Unlike most of the days, I wasn’t listening to music or texting someone while walking. Not habits I’m proud of, or would write about in my autobiography.
As I was walking with my senses wide awake to the world around me (or, as people from before the smartphone addiction age would call it, just walking), I heard a rather unusual and violent sound over my head.
It was a red squirrel, jumping between the branches and playing cheerfully in the brightly lit, breezy day. The mild panic of something falling from the sky on my head soon changed into a yearning to feel what the little red squirrel must be feeling and curiosity about what my street must look like from the treetops.
And while I was staring at the action, I realized something strange: I don’t ever look at the top of trees. It is such a strange part of my surroundings. I am either looking straight ahead, or at the ground ten feet in front of me as I walk, or into my phone screen. Due to a mild interest in airplanes, I do look at the sky when I hear a helicopter or an airplane. But never the space between me and the sky.
That’s the space the tops of trees occupy. If you look closely, there’s not much happening there: wind blowing through the branches and leaves, sunshine trying to steal a view of the ground beneath, and if you’re lucky, an occasional animal or bird. But it seems like a happy place. A simpler place.
Recently, my friend Mihał and I went for a walk around my neighbourhood, intentionally looking at the everyday, mundane streets, corners, and buildings, and discovering something new in them, taking pictures along the way. It was fun, and I would recommend it if you’re looking for something interesting to do with a friend next weekend.
Looking at the tops of trees felt “new” in a similar way, and gave me inspiration for this post. I hope to have inspired you to find beauty in the tops of trees around you.
Thank you for reading!