As a seedling I nestled in some soggy moss and found myself a home. This place retained moisture, germination was easy. Then, down went my roots and the substrate was worthy. Solid and malleable at once but rich too in the nutrients a young tree needs. It was all I needed for some time forward. Yet as I grew, the mass below me began to shrink. It crumbled, and withered, and became softer and wonderfully spongy. Eventually, my roots found a new profile to penetrate. This one with minerals and not just the organic material upon which I’d sprouted. I grew ever taller. Now with a view below to the decaying remnants of the log that was my mother, my nurse, I was weaned. I graduated to a steady diet from the soil and rainwater as my nurse departed for good. Now, where she once rested, a passageway through my knees. On my hips a whole new world is growing preparing me for motherhood: moss and ferns and fungi harbor banana slugs and tree voles and perhaps pacific wrens. I have many more years of greening to do but watch as others of my kind yield to time, become snags – standing deadwood hosting woodpeckers and owls. Some snags, in powerful storms, topple and I know too that my future is indeed from where I came.