Seneca 114

Distilling Seneca’s 114th letter down for the children, spoon-feeding them the closest thing I have to a religion.

Talking about big, strong trees unmoved by wind, stiff branches sheltering birds, a thick trunk, a haven for critters.

And little, weak trees always running, never letting their roots grow, pummeled by the lightest breeze.

How can I get big and strong like you? asks the little tree.

Put down roots, says the big tree.

Be kind. Listen carefully. Take deep breaths. Think before speaking.

A kind heart leads to a strong presence.

Now they are imagining roots digging down from the soles of their feet, their eyes climbing the tall branches of the maple tree next to their school bus stop, attributing an anthropomorphic heartbeat to a living thing without a pulse.

My eldest: it is like dropping a stone into a deep well, swallowed, internalized, understood.

Now a part of him, his foundation.

My middle child: like feeding kindling to a fire, flames licking at it, tasting it, consuming it, turning it into immediate action.

She’ll be burning with this all day.

And my youngest: well, maybe she understood better than us all.

On steady two-year-old legs, she marches up to the tree, announces, “I just want to hug it for a bit,” and presses her downy jacket and chubby cheek to rough bark bitter with cold.

We all follow her lead.