Wise Old Trees
There's something to be said for sharing the space of a large old tree. Thinking about the things they've seen. The life that surrounds them, life that lives on them and inside them. Still, they stand, unwavering. Even Mother Nature can’t knock these trees down. They will fall when they are good and ready!
If these trees were to tell their stories, I'd think their voices would bellow loudly, and their speech would be slow and deliberate. Observers would be entrapped in awe of their majesty and would unwittingly cling to every detail.
I have met a few such trees...
The Tulip Poplars on George Washington's Mount Vernon estate. Gigantic, majestic, awesome trees that were saplings when the General roamed the grounds. Two hundred years of watching the General sow the seeds of freedom and independence.
The Japanese Cherry trees in the tidal basin in Washington, DC. Not quite as old as the General's Tulip Poplars, but just as reliable and alive and inspiring. They've seen a hundred or so years of power raging and changing hands, deals being made, laws of the land being forged.
The Live Oaks are the giants of the south with crooked entangled branches dripping with moss. Some as old as 500 years, so many human conflicts these trees have endured. They've seen enslavement, revolutions, independence, and civil war, but ultimately triumph and unity.
Oh, what stories they could tell!
During a hike through the forest, I came across a large old tree, I stopped and observed it. Its rough bark against my hand, the earth at its base under my feet, and its leaves in the breeze, all tickled my senses. I closed my eyes, and could feel its energy mingling with my energy. I could hear its resonance aligning to mine.
It wanted to tell me. It wanted me to know its stories. Not for vanity. Trees are not vain. No, it was a warning. Its stories were cautionary tales of injustice, oppression and betrayal. Tales of humans being human. Eventually all the stories appeared the same.
Human nature we call it. Human weakness, the tree calls it. The tree bellowed its message in my mind. “STOP! You humans are like the sun. Your stories may differ as centuries pass, but the premise is the same. You lie and cheat and bully. I’ve seen it all! Resilience, unity, and perseverance are the words you use to hide the inevitable truth. Familiar beginnings, familiar outcomes, just like the predictable sun, rising and setting each day. That is what I see when you stop and observe me.”
“No!” I responded. “Humans are inherently good! We cherish life! We nurture goodness and squelch the evil! How can you think of us as so nefarious?“
“Oh child. You are not nefarious. You have the angst of youth within you. You feel disconnected from the harmony of Mother Nature. The world is not yours to control. The world was here long before you came along. It is a cradle you should surrender to. Your dissension from your place in the natural world has made you at odds with it. This is where the evil seeps in. “
"Could that be true?" I thought to myself. The cracks and crevices torn open when we ripped ourselves from the clutches of our Mother - is that our Pandora’s box? Is that where the evil in our hearts comes from? It’s true, humans have long been out of harmony with the natural world, but our humanity is good and hopeful, right?
The profound message from the tree left me stunned. The truths we observe every day in our interactions with nature, and how we perceive and treat others, is testament that something is wrong. Maybe the tree was right. We tell ourselves that we are inherently good, and evil is bad, but at the same time, evil dictates our thoughts as we compete against nature, and against each other.
If the cracks and crevices that opened when we left the Mother were plugged with love to counter the evil, would we be more harmonious with nature? With each other? Or is it too late? Can the box truly never be completely closed?
I stepped back to the tree, closed my eyes, felt its energy once again. I conjured one final message in response to the tree’s declaration. Hope. Hope that we will one day return to the Mother and mend the brokenness, sew the torn fabric of our existence into a harmonious life returning to the clutches of our Mother.
“You tell good stories.” The tree whispered. “I hope for you too.”