I have seen trees, in unison, leaning in one direction and knew which way the winds normally blew. I don’t recall seeing a tree island. Just gentle whispers that it is not about the content blowing around me…or the lack of content. It’s whether I choose to be what and who I am. Perfectly imperfect. The context of essence not the content. 

Deep bow my tree island friend for switching the consonant. The “x” marks the spot.