I am making my retreat in an ancient tree, covered with climbing vines and plants that I remember from biology field studies in remote corners of Ecuador. Here they grow, in the middle of the city, with minibusses passing by. I block the citysound with a new-age interpretation of Native American chants (it works for me) and imagine my heart beating in time with the water moving up the gnarled, braided limbs of this forest creature. I am becoming more a part of the tree with each breath. I lay back on it, some 15 feet above the ground, feel myself more a part of it with each low drumbeat in my ears, each slow exhale into the cool breeze flowing overland, out to sea. The tree invites me, has a crook that fits the contours of my body, welcomes me with wind-blown, hanging vine caresses. When the breeze lifts the lianas, they touch my cheek like a parent drying child-tears; dangling by their toes, they glide over my arm, soothing, reassuring and gentle; they swing by my bent knee, rejoicing at the gifts of strength, agility and courage that have allowed me to climb here and spend time with them.

I have been reflecting on the story of the teepee - how Native American architecture tells life lessons. How the poles that support the skin of a teepee as it ascends up, up, all lead to the Great Creator, that circular hole at the apex that carries our eyes and souls heavenward and humbles us with love. They took their design from the same inspiration that made this tree. A living symbol. Many roots firmly panted in the earth which has been singing its stories in the wind for centuries. The limbs twisting back and forth, but ever upward, always focused, always striving on their ascent to the sun. And the vines climb the limbs, also moving up, but occasionally pausing to send a few whisps back towards the earth - showers of grace and inspiration, promises of better things to come the farther up we travel. A greater perspective - earthly things seeming smaller, God seeming nearer - a freedom in the centre of a gust of wind that carries our troubles from us - a glimpse of a cousin of the bromeliads, the kinds of flowers that do not grow close to the ground.

And I am not alone. Through the jungle foliage I spy a kiskadee, a small black and yellow bird that ruffles its feathers and fans its wings when it calls, "Kis-ka-DEE!" And a second bird suspends its tiny body sideways on a hanging vine with matchstick legs. It looks like a performer from Cirque d'Soleil. And there are two lizards, hardly distinguishable in color from the tree and the vines they are scampering around on. They pause in their fast-paced frolicking to look at me, across a chasm in the middle of the tree and up 10 more feet. We look at each other and acknowledge our bond in the quiet beauty of these moments. We look at each other for a long while. Then, finally, they scurry away to play secretly under the vines. I almost wish I could follow, but truth be told, I'm comfortable where I am, and I don't think my badly-sprained finger will help me scurry along after them. I think one would need to be fit, fearless and fascinated for that kind of climbing. And Eileen is at the base of this tree, lost in her own private reverie, feeling God in and around her in her own way. It has been a difficult time full of difficult question for both of us.

Foremost on the list and most disturbing because it once had an answer: Why am I here? Not here on earth, but here in this ancient tree, in Guyana, working harder than I can remember every day and feeling terrible about the realization that no matter what I do or how much I do, it will never be enough for these people. That is the hardest, but many other questions follow in its footsteps. And yet, something in the breeze quiets me inside enough to listen to a deep peace beating softly: "Why are you here? Be attentive to how you feel right now. This is why you are here. Today is. To find God in a tree in the middle of the city. To feel cradled, cared for and at peace in the midst of your insecurities and questions about your "new" life. To relax, to let it go, to pray and to enter quietly into God's presence and trust God to provide in his time."

And it is enough for today.