This morning, I spent a few minutes with this birch tree in the gardens before work. I could stare at a birch tree for hours - the eyes, knots, layers, and the charcoal color palette. The markings, folds, peels, and scratches - they are as unique as someone's skin.
Everyone has something they are in awe of, something that seems unexplainable in its beauty. Something that can be counted on to always restore your curiosity and wonder. Birch trees have always been that for me. It's like my brain can't figure them out, like they're a puzzle. I know that I could read about them and how they grow and why they peel, but there is something about the mystery of them and a feeling that they lead to something else that I would like to keep. For now, I'd rather just stare at them and draw their little dashes and lines and curls.
One of my students said that Russia has endless forests of birch trees. I would like to see that someday.