I have been noticing the trees.
I am not entirely sure when it began.
Here, they are expressive and joyful.
They twist. They reach. They curve into themselves. They take up space in a way that feels intentional, almost expressive. Not uniform. Not controlled. As if each one has decided how it wants to exist.
The ceiba trees are the ones I return to the most.
They do something I have not seen other trees do. Their branches stretch outward, almost perfectly horizontal, as if they are in conversation with the horizon rather than reaching for the sky. There is a presence to them. A kind of still authority.
When they are young, they are covered in large spikes. You cannot pass them without noticing. They demand your attention. A kind of protection, or perhaps a declaration.
But over time, the spikes disappear.
The tree softens.
And then, in the spring, something unexpected happens. Large green forms appear, hanging from the branches. At first they look like oversized avocados, unfamiliar and slightly out of place. But they are not fruit. They open. They burst. And from them comes a soft white fiber that catches the wind and drifts away.
Something held tightly, released.
I find myself wondering what their roots must look like beneath the ground.
If this is what they show above, what must exist where we cannot see?
Near the cenotes, there are other trees. I believe they are álamos. Their roots do not stay hidden. They rise up and out of the earth, intertwining, wrapping, folding back onto themselves. It is impossible to tell where one root ends and another begins.
They do not grow in straight lines.
They adapt. They respond. They move around what is there and become something more complex because of it.
There is no urgency in them. Only persistence.
And then there are the gumbo limbo trees.
They might be my favorite.
Their branches twist and wrap in a way that feels almost human. As if the tree is reaching for itself. Holding itself. Embracing its own form.
There is something deeply familiar in that gesture.
I read that they are related to mangroves, which makes sense. There is a fluidity to them. But unlike the mangroves, their roots remain hidden. Everything expressive happens above ground, in the movement of their branches.
An inward motion, made visible.
And then there are the others.
Trees I cannot name. Trees that simply stopped me. A root that bends in an unexpected way. A trunk that splits and reforms. A shape that feels more like sculpture than growth.
I have been photographing them, but the images never quite capture what it feels like to stand beside them.
It is not just how they look.
It is how they hold themselves.
There is something to learn from that.
Nothing about them is rushed. Nothing is forced into symmetry. They grow in response to their environment, to time, to pressure, to light. They change. They shed. They adapt. They become.
And still, they remain entirely themselves.
Perhaps that is why I keep noticing them.
Because in their forms, there is a quiet permission.
To take up space.
To change over time.
To soften where you once needed protection.
To hold what is yours until you are ready to release it.
To grow in ways that are not always straight, but are always true.
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