我最终确实克服了牛仔裤的尴尬，但我从来没有克服过这种景象。我一直在想，在那棵树上这么高的地方是什么感觉。我想看到它，感受到它，并希望它能成为我的朋友。 再一次

    没过多久，我就不害怕站在这么高的地方了，并找到了那个地方，成为我的宠儿。 我可以在那里坐上几个小时，只是看着外面的世界。 日落是惊人的。 有些时候，它们是紫色和粉红色的，有些时候，它们是炽热的橙色，在地平线上的云朵上点火。

    

    正是在这样的日子里，我父亲关于整体大于部分之和的概念从我的脑海中转移到我的心中。从我的梧桐树上看到的景色比屋顶、云、风和凉风加起来还要多。

    它是一种魔法。

    我开始惊叹于我是如何感觉到自己既卑微又雄伟。这怎么可能呢？我怎么能如此充满和平和奇迹？这棵简单的树怎么能让我感到如此复杂？如此有活力。

    我一有机会就爬到树上。到了初中，这变成了几乎每一天，因为去我们学校的巴士在科利尔街上车，就在这棵无花果树前面。

    起初我只是想看看在校车停靠前我能爬多高，但没过多久，我就早早地离开了家，这样我就能清楚地到达我的位置，看到太阳升起，或鸟儿飞来飞去，或只是其他孩子聚集在路边的时候。

    我试图说服巴士站的孩子们和我一起爬上去，哪怕是一小段路，但他们都说他们不吃脏东西。因为害怕一点脏东西而拒绝一个感受魔法的机会？我简直不敢相信。

    我从来没有告诉我母亲关于爬树的事。作为一个真正明智的成年人，她会告诉我这太危险了。我的兄弟们，作为兄弟，也不会关心这个问题。

    这就剩下我父亲了。我知道唯一能理解的人。但是，我还是害怕告诉他。他会告诉我母亲，很快他们就会坚持让我停下来。所以我保持沉默，继续攀登，当我眺望世界时，感到有些孤独的喜悦。

    然后几个月前，我发现自己在和树说话。 一场完整的对话，只有我和一棵树 而在爬下来的时候，我觉得想哭 为什么我没有一个真正的人可以交谈呢？ 为什么我没有像其他人一样有一个最好的朋友？ 当然，有一些我在学校认识的孩子，但他们都不是亲密的朋友。他们对爬树没有兴趣。在闻到阳光的时候。

    那天晚上吃完饭后，我父亲到外面去画画。在寒冷的夜里，在门廊灯光的照射下，他出去为他一直在画的日出画上了最后一笔。

    我拿着我的外套，出去坐在他身边，像老鼠一样安静。

    几分钟后，他说："你在想什么呢，亲爱的？"

    在我和他坐在那里的所有时间里，他从未问过我这个问题。 我看着他，但似乎无法说出来。

 

    

 I did eventually get over the embarrassment of my jeans, but I never got over the view. I kept thinking of what it felt like to be up so high in that tree. I wanted to see it, to feel it, again. And again.

    It wasn't long before I wasn't afraid of being up so high and found the spot that became my spot. I could sit there for hours, just looking out at the world. Sunsets were amazing. Some days they'd be purple and pink, some days they'd be a blazing orange, setting fire to clouds across the horizon.

    

    It was on a day like that when my father's notion of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts moved from my head to my heart. The view from my sycamore was more than rooftops and clouds and wind and coolers combined.

    It was magic.

    And I started marvelling at how I was feeling both humble and majestic. How was that possible? How could I be so full of peace and full of wonder? How could this simple tree make me feel so complex? So alive.

    I went up the tree every chance I got. And in junior high that became almost every day because the bus to our school picks up on Collier Street, right in front of the sycamore tree. 

    At first I just wanted to see how high I could get before the bus pulled up, but before long I was leaving the house early so I could get clear up to my spot to see the sun rise, or the birds flutter about, or just the other kids converge on the curb.

    I tried to convince the kids at the bus stop to climb up with me, even a little ways, but all of them said they didn't eat to get dirty. Turn down a chance to feel magic for fear of a little dirt? I couldn't believe it.

    I'd never told my mother about climbing the tree. Being the truly sensible adult that she is, she would have told me it was too dangerous. My brothers, being brothers, wouldn't have cared.

    That left my father. The one person I knew would understand. Still, I was afraid to tell him. He'd tell my mother and pretty soon they'd insist that I stop. So I kept quiet, kept climbing, and felt a somewhat lonely joy as I looked out over the world.

    Then a few months ago I found myself talking to the tree. An entire conversation, just me and a tree. And on the climb down I felt like crying. Why didn't I have someone real to talk to? Why didn't I have a best friend like everyone else seemed to? Sure, there were kids I knew at school, but none of them were close friends. They'd have no interest in climbing the tree. In smelling the sunshine.

    That night after dinner my father went outside to paint. In the cold of the night, under the glare of the porch light, he went out to put the finishing touches on a sunrise he'd been working on.

    I got my jacket and went out to sit beside him, quiet as a mouse.

    After a few minutes he said, "What's on your mind, sweetheart?"

    In all the times I'd sat out there with him, he'd never asked me that. I looked at him but couldn't seem to speak.