Though it sounds very grand and poetic and dramatic to say (with a careless sweep of the arm), "I have always loved the way" of anything, as I so often begin to do, if I'm honest I have to say that there are very few things or people that I have always loved. The only two I can think of, as silly as it sounds, are trees and water. I'm not sure I've ever met a tree I didn't like, or even really a body of water, though I might like to have words with the Gauley river. Even with these, though, "I've always loved the way" would still be inaccurate. My love for trees and love for water have grown and changed with me. I have loved the support of trees, the strength of trees, the long lives of them. I loved a tree that grew from a branch that Sara and I planted by our elementary school library, and "watered" daily with orange juice from the cafeteria. Sometimes I love the power of water. Sometimes I love its ubiquitousness, sometimes its constancy, sometimes its variability. When does any love ever remain the same?
And yes, I know no one cares. And yes, I also know I'm a hippy. I even talk to trees sometimes, or pat them comfortingly. I am aware that this might arguably make me certifiably insane. At these times I am always having a small, nearly unconscious, back-of-the-mind conversation with myself:
"You know, Marie, generally speaking, trees do not have nervous systems or any sort of consciousness."
"Shut up. You don't know."