Under three Deodar cedars, standing on the needle-padding, I spent the afternoon, making up God songs. Rose-shaped cones at my feet. The words didn’t matter, only the earnest voice that rose from my small body, up into the trees. Something hovered there, in that canopy of branches, reaching from tree to tree like a small family, holding each other for comfort or celebration. We are one, their sturdy togetherness taught. And yours.