Tree Time
I collect trees. Well, tree memories, actually. I photograph them, I draw them, and sometimes I just sit under them. Or in them. The species doesn’t matter. I've communed with conifers, wept beneath willows, sung and sighed with sycamores and cypress. For me, messages and magic arrive via bark and boughs.
I’m not talking storybook or Hollywood magic. I’ve never had apples aimed at my backside as I fled from my own wicked witches, or been thumped by Potter-esque Whomping Willows. Neither have I been carried about, hobbit-like in the branches of trees, although having my own personal “Treebeard” might be kinda cool. Tree magic for me is more about the alchemy of de-stressing and decisionmaking and the metamorphosis they create.
Once, years ago, I climbed into a big bay to survey the chaos of my life. Straddling a bough, its girth as fat as a Shetland pony, I realized I didn’t really care that the store I managed was in the top five on the West Coast or that chartreuse and salmon were the hot new colors for spring. Leaning against the massive trunk, I allowed myself to dream about what I’d really love to do for the next week, month, year, decade. The tree seemed to breathe with me as a breeze rearranged the leaves and shifted new patterns over my skin. The next day I gave notice, dropping my retail management career like autumn leaves to begin cultivating a budding interest in graphic design.
A decade later, my marriage had become a gray shadow of its former robust self. Rather than consult the oracle, the tarot, or heaven forbid, my family, I ventured alone into the forest. At the edge of my camp circle stood an amazing ponderosa pine. A trauma—probably a lightning strike—had left its major trunk an atrophied spire. Another branch had grown up beside it, creating a shape like a tuning fork. I pulled out my sketchbook and drew the junction of the tree where it had morphed into the fecund shape of a woman’s body. From that point the compensatory branch, lush with new growth, lunged toward the sky. Could I let go of conventional expectations and became, neither my Mother’s nor my husband's version of a wife, but my own woman? I didn't have an “I am woman, watch me roar” moment, but more a compelling curiosity to grow in a new direction, using my tree as a thriving example. I dissolved my marriage and, eventually, I flourished.
Recently, I came to the conclusion I'd lost my equilibrium. In the last week, I'd tried to pop open my house door with my car alarm, gotten in the shower still wearing my socks, and eaten from the same Chinese takeout for three days. Too many late nights and lunches at my desk left me with a stiff neck, crumbs in my keyboard, and a night security guard in my office tower that knew me by name.
On Saturday, I set out to find a new tree. Driving the coastal hills, I rounded a curve in the road and there it was—a spreading valley oak that had somehow survived despite the creep of subdivisions, vineyards and dairy barns. Its trunk grew up about fifteen feet then leaned and stretched far out over the verdant pasture. The branches extended at least fifty feet and were naturally pruned in one direction by the unrelenting wind of the north coast.
I had to photograph the tree and climbed out of my car for a better angle. In my viewfinder, I framed the behemoth oak. The force of the gale plastered my clothes against my body and straightened my curls into stinging strands that lashed my cheeks and obscured the lens. My hair, my skirt, even the way I was leaning mirrored the tree that endured this scouring onslaught every day.
So what was this metaphor from Mother Nature going to teach me? At times you grow where you are and in the direction of the prevailing wind? Or perhaps that the shifts can be smaller and without drama? Crook toward the light here, scoot a root over there, send a tendril out to the left and after years—you become a work of art.
Reviewing the photo, I realized this tree couldn’t remain upright without a substantial counterbalance. I’m sure a cutaway would reveal a mirror image of the dramatic branches. The hidden root system would be immense, a complex system of roots and rootlets diving deep beneath the soil, clawing in the opposite direction to withstand the wind. The gift of the Oak was a new understanding and appreciation of family and friends, as well as my own deep inner resources, which provide for me a similar grounding. I took away a new awareness of the direction my life is growing, and made a promise to take time to nurture myself more.
I began with yoga. My teacher Nancy began our session with a calming voice.
"Just stand. Find the four points of balance on the bottom of each foot. Hold up your toes, and find the point behind the big toe, behind the little toe and on each side of your heels."
Easy for her to say, I hadn’t had this much trouble standing upright since I was a toddler. I lifted my toes and held them apart. I’d polished my toenails, and had to dash for the telephone without smearing them, enough times to have this move down.
I placed my toes on the floor one at a time and stood tall. I felt myself begin to settle and sort, becoming exquisitely aware of the inside of thighs, sacrum, pelvis, spine, shoulders and neck. Microscopic shifts, yet at last I felt perfect alignment. My breath relaxed into a gentle rhythm and I held mountain pose. Solid.
Then Nancy told us to shift all our balance on to the left leg and draw up the right leg into tree pose.
Tree? I was a windmill, a whirling dervish. I barely missed taking down Jim on my left and staggering into Erica on my right. I put both feet on the floor and exhaled deeply. I could do this. I sent out tendrils of intention, making choices rooted in my values, reaching up for my goals. Completely present in this lovely room of polished floors, lilies, and temple bells, I stood barefoot on my yoga mat. I centered, inhaled, and raised my foot.
Today I’m not looking for guidance from trees.
In this moment, I am a tree.