Do Trees Get Tired?

Hurricane Sandy Wasn't Dandy!
This on the front page of the local newspaper. In actuality, this region didn't witness the worst of the storm, aside from some short-term power outages and downed trees; no lives were lost here in my city. But like Christmas, Sandy was a natural event that was predicted early and thus over-prepared-for.

Monday afternoon I cuddled under a furry blanket, a wool cap on my head, as I gazed out the big windows on the sunroom that overlooks our property. Facing southwest, the gales blew past my high vantage point. Bright leaves swirled into the corner and were blasted high into the air. Across the way, tall young maples bent and stretched like cats being groomed. A yellow bullet streaked past - a single leaf caught in a current of sea air that had originated far out over the Atlantic Ocean.

My husband laughed at the sight of me, a lookout in my own private, landlocked lighthouse, all bundled up. Though the tropical storm was warm, the wet cool wind drove through the interspaces and invaded my glass tower.

Still, I kept watch over the last willow tree. The last of the Three Sisters, she lifts her veils to the sky, far over the tops of any buildings. Her massive trunk twists and drives deep, a living conduit between the earth and the sky. From this vantage point, I watched the willow tree respond to drought by collapsing its trunk a little; this happened during the unusually long dry spell during April and May of 2012. Five months later, the wood is full and the joints are round. The branches are green and strong; long drooping fronds drip showers of golden leaves.

In the forty mile per hour wind, the fronds are wiggling like hula dancers' fingers. Thick connectors twist and spread like Japanese fans, lacy branches flutter and flirt, then tear and dash to the ground. The soap opera of wind and tree. Enormous limbs entrusted with thick bundles of squirrels' nests, sheltering dens of  woodchucks and chipmunks, yielding graciously to the greater forces of wind and rain. Only the silly sparrows dare to plunge and swirl, daredevils on wings. One clever fellow nestles into the window birdfeeder to ride out the storm, dark brown and dripping as he pecks at the birdseed and shivers.

For long minutes at a time, the fury recedes. Heavy strands of willow sink to the soaked grass, and all of nature seems to take a breath before the next blast. Again and again, the firehose drenches the land, propelled by distant unseen forces, a siphon spilling water across the fading autumn foliage. Darkening skies and huge raindrops lead a fierce dance that demands more flexibility and stamina from the graceful willow tree.

At one impossible twist, she releases a single golden frond, a branch as big as a grown man, to the verdant carpet, where it continues to twitch and roll with a life of its own.

Far above, in the mist of heavy rain and shadows of cumulus clouds, glittering leaves clashed and shimmered. Long green ribbons circled and swirled, and the taut strong tree trunk rocked, belly-dancing in the teeth of nature's rage. It was a celebration of Gaia, her creative forces informed sensually, a 5-D experience from the ground to the sky. Late into the night, she danced in veils of green and gold.

Grey morning light fell over tattered rags and scattered bones, leaves and twigs soaked in running puddles. The lucky survivors drooped and dripped, poor cover for wet birds.

Though the brook has risen to the top of our lawn, the willow tree perches on a mount of roots. Hundreds of heavy strands soaked with water, still thick with golden leaves, cloak and curve over her bent frame. Unseen roots collect the excess water and store it for the next drought. The slightest breeze frees a branch, and with languid reluctance she lifts her fan, the willow tree stirs as fat squirrels race along its extended branches while shy finches dart through her fringed sleeves.

A night and a day of dancing have left my willow tree in disarray. I wonder if she is tired?

The Meaning of Life

What is the meaning of Life? Perhaps it is 42, like the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy says. In that case, I suspect we have been asking the wrong question.

In our church, we had the answer to those important questions at a very early age. We might be initiated into the mystery of Holy Communion at the age of 8.  Before then, we knew the answers to the three most important questions in the universe:

1. Who made me? (God made me.)

2. Why did God make me? (God made me to serve Him.)

3. How can I serve God? (By following the dictates of the Church.)

Even at my young age, I had follow-up questions. Like, How can I serve God, when he has everything and I have nothing?  And, What if the Church tells me to do something that hurts someone else?

I was a thoughtful child, but overawed by authority and I had a paralyzing fear of disapproval. So instead of clearing these things up before I was confirmed and made a Soldier of God, I snuck off to the library to read about the history of religion. I learned that there are as many religions as there are faces of God (or vice versa).

The variety and number spread before me only made me lose my appetite for the search. There were many answers to my question, But I didn't know enough about myself to become emotionally involved in the quest for meaning. It was many many years before I found my steps leading along the path to spiritual understanding. I made money, I brought up a daughter, and I learned new skills and found tools to help me round out my life. I learned how to be more of a person, but I began once again to question my purpose.

I was living selfishly, shallowly, taking and filtering and hoarding my experiences. I grew a thick shell to prevent anything from hurting me. Unfortunately, from inside that shell, I couldn't feel anybody else. I forced myself to peep out occasionally, first one antenna, then an eye. But if anyone saw the real me, I retracted fast, back into my shell.

For someone who is curious, active, imaginative, creative, and compassionate, this was prison. Inside my cell, I wrote my questions, and my theories. I filled notebook after notebook with wanderings, thoughtlings, idealets, doodles and desperation. Where is my tongue? I have a need to speak! Where are my words? The feelings run high and fast and powerful to the brink...crashing and falling in exhaustion and frustration.

We want to share, you and I. We have words, and ideas, and thoughts and feelings that knowing, I can help you, you can help me, we can be amused, amazed, and tickled at the foibles of Fate.

What is the meaning of Life? We are not alone here.