I was nine years old and something was happening with the tree. What was it? I stared at a branch. Something was off about the leaves. Like their outline was so sharp, the green so green, they seemed oddly closer to me, or larger, not just three-dimensional but four. I stared and began to feel something odd. It was confusing, but it was as though the tree and I were connected somehow—whatever that meant—and if I didn’t move the connection would linger. My scalp tingled. I tried not to blink. The sensation grew stronger, as though my body was getting lighter, even starting to lift slightly off the ground, which led my imagination to picture seeing myself and the tree from above, a plane, far enough so the tree might seem like a blade of grass, and then even farther away, outer space, where we’d be invisible. My mind was racing. Who would be I at that point? Did I matter anyway? Was this what it felt like to die?
I didn’t have an idea what was happening, except that as long as I stared at the tree, those leaves, for a solid thirty seconds my body was filled with a sense of rapture.
This is one of the most vivid memories of my childhood: standing in the backyard with a true sense of awe. A glimpse of how small I was, and I was flush not with fear but a sense of unity, like something invisible had made itself seen.
“Emma” (1966) by Emma Amos
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