Talking to the trees

I sure hope I am not the only one who does it. I may be the only one to admit it.

Each morning I am up at six and stumbling out the door, barely coherent, MP3 powered on, and I am off and walking. The nice thing about six am (some people think there is NOTHING nice about it) is that things are pretty still. By things, I mean, human things. And human beings. Cars and lawnmowers, shouting children; even other walkers or joggers are rare. I like this. I like that most of my town still has its eyes closed. My personal space becomes fantastically large; I can walk backward to look at things longer if I like. I can play air drums along with the music being piped into my ears. I can dance a little, sing under my breath, cross the street in the middle, and do a full-on freak-out if I happen to walk face first into a surprise spider's web, without fear of mortification.

Most of all, I can talk to the trees.

I wish I could find the right words to convey what I draw from the trees. I sense them breathing, almost, their energy permeating the morning, soothing me like a comforting hand. Each one is, to me, like a person, a character. And yes, as I said, I really do; I speak to them. Not outloud too often; mostly in my head. The old-growth elders of the tribe, massive and stately, exuding the wisdom of all that they have seen; I offer them my respect. Good morning, Grandfather Oak. Good morning, Grandmother Pine.

I grin at the young and fresh-faced Dogwoods, their butter-colored flowers open wide like a smile, and the delicate Willow waving shyly. I nod to the elegant Paper Birch leaning nonchantly into the breeze, smile at the dainty Japanese Maples, and almost applaud the scruffy Cedars, because I have a particular fondness for them and their deep, red hearts.

I say their names when I recognize them: Elm, Magnolia and Tulip Poplar, Ornamental Cherry and Arborvitae, Sweet Lilac and Ash. Viburnam, Sassafras, Catalpa, Linden, Grey Birch, Sycamore...I list them like a litany.

I could make poems out of tree-words found in a glossary of tree-terms; to me the words sound like a secret language:
Blade, bract, clingstone, conifer, freestone, midrib, palmate, rootstock...they weave together an incantation of growth.

This morning I approached a grand and imposing tree near the edge of the road, and my steps slowed as I took in the large orange X on its solid mid-trunk. What mark is this? As I neared, I saw a sign, an official town notice, tacked to its bark: Tree Slated for Removal. My heart clutched. Poor, doomed tree. I mourned the impending loss in advance, my hand on its blackened girth. It was clearly ill, discoloration running up its length, but it still radiated strength, solid under my palm. I stood still there for a moment, so I could spend time with this tree, this tree I had been warned would soon be gone. I tried to take a picture with my mind, to transplant it from its roots to its crown, so it could grow in my imagination, not be forgotten, always be honored.

Then, I said goodbye.



I said it out loud.