THE THING ABOUT TREES

Trees

I’m writing down bits and pieces of my memories…life seems to have happened so fast I probably won’t remember to tell these stories to my kids or theirs…writing them down seemed the thing to do. I have a thing about trees and I wanted to tell them why that might be. I also did a video and voice over of the story which you can find by clicking this link. But here’s the transcript of the video.

THE THING ABOUT TREES

I was raised in the Great Plains where trees are rare, usually found only in city parks and around rivers, streams and lakes and in shelter belts. There weren't many trees in South Dakota and so all of them were very precious. Now I've never seen a redwood tree or any famous tree from so my view of trees is very well, pedestrian. Oh, I knew famous trees existed. Trees so old they predate written history. Trees so big they make photographic works of art. Trees so cool they are planted in sculptured gardens. But trees in my young life were just plain old trees at first. But then I met my grandparents’ trees and things changed.

My grandparents lived just six blocks away and had two wonderful apple trees in their backyard and that's where I spent most of my time or at least that's where I wanted to be. I loved to climb those trees knotty twisting limbs to reach their highest fragile branches(...) immersing myself in their winding grip. They challenged me, they guided me, they gave me their best fruit, the best climber, me. Other apple trees existed in other yards but these were the family trees. These were my trees and the apples. Oh my God. Tart biting crisp green pellets of energy and flavor. The first taste of the day. A trumpet fanfare on my tongue.

When visiting I'd sit with my grandparents and politely respond to the quizzes about school, friends, music and family. But I really wanted to be outside and climb in my trees. I would climb mostly year round but not in the winter and early spring when they were most vulnerable to breaking and climb I did. But I'd also sit a lot too and look and think. I shared my trees with lots of critters mostly squirrels and bees. The trees provided protection for all of us from the sun, from the rain when I could get away with it and from prying eyes. A haven, a safe place. I was pretty sure the two apple trees somehow talked with one another.  They seemed to know what I was doing and how they should help or guide me in my climb. My grandparents worried about me falling, murmured concerns for breaking branches and damaged fruit. But the trees, it was the trees. They showed me how to climb, where to sit, when to rest, where to notice.

The squirrels were my grandmother's bane. Grandma used all the apples we picked. Pies, jams, jellies, applesauce and on and on and on. She deeply resented any reduction in the harvest including my occasional sampling or so she said. In the fall the squirrels would sit just feet away from me or grandma. Chatter, bob their heads, dodge quickly to another branch and start to eat an apple, which would then fall to the ground. That's what made grandma mad. One bite, apple falls and then on to the next apple, another bite, another apple falls and pretty soon you have one bite apple strewing the grass under the tree and one mad grandma is muttering at the chattering tree rats.

I'd laugh and enjoy. Imagine being eye to eye with the grace and speed of a racing squirrel. They'd dance around me just out of reach, just far enough to not worry about me. Close enough to taunt me with their twitching tails and sharp focused eyes. The confidence, the ballet-like leaps, the strength. How could I not enjoy how they played in my trees? Grandma wanted grandpa to get out to 22 and save her apples with mass squirrel executions. Grandpa said it was nature's do and to let it go. I agreed with him.

Grandpa died. I discovered girls and rock and roll. I quit climbing trees.

Grandma moved. I moved. First to west Texas where a tree was just a non-moving tumbleweed. Then to Iceland where trees are only a concept. Then at last to the mountains where trees are plentiful. I reconnected after 20 years. But it wasn't all peaches and cream.

I'm not a camper. I don't like sleeping bags, tents, campfire, cooking or waking up to find a tree to be behind. Nope. None of it. But to reconnect with the trees I did it all. On one of my trips to Bridger Lake Utah, a place known for its “nowhereness,” I became convinced the trees talked with one another. Not sure how I came to that conclusion but the sensation of community the trees exuded helped me and reminded me of my apple trees.

I didn't climb those giant mountain trees. I just opened myself to their dancing shadows and reveled in the deep feel of their bark and leaves. Back then I hadn't heard the term forest bathing in Japan called Shirin Yoku. But with the help of my trees legacy, forest bathing is what I did many times. Many, many times.

But then I moved again and then again. And finally to a place with lots of trees but very little time to spend with them. Life was a moving target. London, Oslo, Sweden, Brussels, The Hague, Copenhagen and more.

And I lost my connection with trees.  I lost a bit of me too. In those years, forest receded and time blurred. People, places, relationships. A tumultuous torrent of everything. Fast, furious, exciting.

But suddenly I'm alone.

I don't think I noticed. And I didn't notice that I was missing the trees. Looking back, I know now I simply wasn't paying attention.

One day a friend asked me to go for a walk with her in an Ohio forest. We paused to sit on a bench and poof. Magically, the trees, the trees came back. I was connected again.

I don't live in the mountains anymore and most forests in my neck of the woods are on private land. But I still find the odd strip of accessible trees and I settle in amongst them. Climbing is right out at my age. But sitting, touching and even hugging a tree is perfect. I lean into the tree, close my eyes and take a deep breath.

I connect.