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r 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。
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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 colors bined。
It was magic。
And I started marveling 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 plex？ 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 t
