The secret lovers beneath the sky

In the park I often visit, there is a particular tree I am drawn to, a beautiful eucalyptus. Each time I return, I find myself sitting beneath her branches, resting against her trunk, breathing her presence in. Over time, I noticed another eucalyptus standing close by, and slowly it became clear to me: these two trees seemed to embody the essence of the feminine and the masculine.

The first tree, the one I always go to, carries herself with openness. Her low branches curve outward like the soft lines of a woman’s body, as if she is offering herself fully to life. Where some of her branches meet, she holds yonis within her body, secret openings shaped gently by time and growth. Her trunk bends slightly toward the earth, grounded, generous, nurturing.

When I lean into her, I feel her bark against my skin, smooth in places, rough in others, her scent rising sharp and clean, like medicine, like memory. Whenever I wrap my arms around her, I feel as though she gently rocks me, cradling me the way a mother rocks her child. Sitting there, I feel both safe and welcomed, as if she knows me and invites me to rest inside her.

The second tree, standing just beside her, feels entirely different. He is tall, straight, unwavering, his trunk firm beneath my palms, his branches reaching high into the sky. He does not bend or lean, but holds steady, rooted and protective. Together they appear as lovers, their roots intertwined in secret beneath the earth, their branches stretching upward and touching softly, as if holding hands above.

The eucalyptus has always been seen as a symbol of strength, purification, and spiritual connection, a bridge between the underworld, the earth, and the heavens. Each year they peel away their bark, shedding old skins, standing bare, ready to begin again. There is something so intimate in this ritual, this willingness to undress and reveal themselves completely. They remind me not only of resilience, but of the beauty of vulnerability, of daring to be seen in their rawness.

I sometimes wonder if it was chance that planted them side by side, or if nature itself conspired to orchestrate their romance. The feminine tree leans gently toward the masculine, reaching into his embrace with her own branches. I find myself asking: would they ever have touched if she hadn’t leaned into him first?

One afternoon, I lay down between them. The grass was cool beneath my body, the air filled with the clean, bright scent of eucalyptus, the leaves whispering like ancient secrets. Above me she curved, open and welcoming, and on the other side he stood steady, protective, present. It felt as if I had slipped into the embrace of secret lovers, their story written in silence and roots. My breath slowed, and I felt held in a love that seemed older than memory.

Watching them, I couldn't help but wonder: in our own lives, how often do we dare to reach out? How often do we lean into connection, trusting that we will be met? And how often are we actually met in the way we hope and deserve?

I sometimes wish people were more like trees, open, honest, and deeply rooted in their true nature.

We are invited to lean into connection, but also to listen deeply, to feel into the space between ourselves and another, and to sense whether they are truly open and ready to receive us. Love is not only about reaching out, but about discerning where our roots are safe and welcomed to intertwine.

Lying between these two trees, I felt deeply held, fascinated by their silent, powerful love story, and once again in awe of nature’s wisdom and mystery.

P.S.: The picture I added is of these two trees, captured in their tender embrace.

Love,

Rosie x