Almost every morning lately, I look out the kitchen window and admire a handful of trees that were recently planted on the street perpendicular to ours. Our neighborhood is fairly new — less than ten years old — and as the common areas are landscaped and trees are planted in front of individual houses, the neighborhood looks more and more intentional, more lived in.
What occurred to me this morning, what I did not expect to discover but which was a wonderful revelation to me, is that I prefer neighborhoods with lots of trees. The mere sight of a tree-lined street fills me with such a sweet mixture of comfort and nostalgia that I find myself smiling and sighing the contented sigh that so often accompanies heart-swelling small moments.
Trees mean forts and imaginary castles. Trees mean tire swings and tangled kites and lazy naps on hammocks. Trees mean shady picnics and reading nooks. Trees mean life, and I can’t get enough of them.
Then God said, “Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds.” And it was so. — Genesis 1:11