The experience created a tectonic shift in how I viewed humanity; the privilege of my life and work was wholly reframed. I refer to this trip as “My African High” because it made me realize the incredible luck I had at being born to middle-class parents in the United States.
I am a dwarf spruce tree. The hands that planted me did so tenderly. The days passed and turned into years, my branches reaching out and up. I weathered storms, snow, and drought. I never gave up. My branches served as perches for birds to hide from predators and hunt for food.
The next thing I knew, I found myself face-to-face with two beautiful horses. My breath caught in my throat as adrenaline coursed through my body. I noted both excitement and fear as I evaluated our proximity. I backed away slowly, never averting my gaze.
On a December night, I mindlessly flung the front door open, and in flew a bird. Panic-stricken and late for an evening out, I tried in vain to guide the purple finch out the door. When my efforts failed, I shut the doors in the house, covered the furniture with sheets, and hoped for the best.
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