Climbing the Tree of Life

When I was a kid, I had a crush on a plain, low-key tree across the road from our house in rural Pennsylvania. Back then, extravagant looks--stately demeanor, gorgeous foliage--meant nothing to me. I loved that tree because I could climb it and it loved me back the same. I knew it was happy to have me on its branches. It gave me small hugs in the crook of its branches and brushed its leaves against me tenderly. It kept me secure from the alligators which sometimes swarmed in the hot lava pool at its base, craving my juicy little limbs. That’s love.

This tree was my neighborhood pal who I hung out with when I wasn’t at my job as an elementary school student on the weekdays. My dolls liked that tree, too. The branches of the tree at the middle of its height were the rooms of a house in my mind, and in the minds of my dolls, given that we shared one big mind. We all saw the tree as our home, and we’d painstakingly live in it, slowly moving from room to room like folded up monkeys, sitting for long stretches, all with the greatest of care—otherwise, a nonchalant dweller could easily fall into some bad trouble.

My sister Sue and I whiled away time up in the branches. If our dolls wanted to come up with us, we’d put them in a small wooden tote and draw it up via twine draped around a branch—super rudimentary, super effective. Then we’d all settle in to satisfy ourselves of time spent in the tree. Situated high up, hovering over danger, feeling the breeze, enjoying the creative physicality of climbing—it all made for a little girl’s best friendship with a tree.

Being up in the tree gave Sue and I an advantage we would have not had otherwise, namely we could throw small bits of natural debris onto Brian Corby’s head when he walked home from the bus stop. Sue loved Brian. I sort of did. He was quite handsome, but the whole thing felt a bit squeamish to me. He was an older man, perhaps ten. We might have been seven and eight. You understand.

There was also the matter of Brian’s reaction to our loving barrage, which fell along the spectrum of Like to Dislike at ‘knock it off’. Our infatuated tree morsel assault would make his face crunch into a miff, at which point I’d pull my dolls to my chest in a protective grip. One never knew what Brian was capable of, though thankfully he was on the ground, and we held the tactical advantage. But inevitably Brian continued his way down the road disinterested, having opened no new lines of communication with us, leaving our puppy love stuck halfway up a tree and a tad embarrassed. Alas, you can imagine.

When I sat up in that tree of my childhood, I was content from several angles. It was a fun challenge to hoist myself up there. It kept me on my A-game to ensure I didn’t fall off. I could see far in front of me when the leaves weren’t there, which gave an inspiring view of the expansiveness of the hayfield surrounding me. And, since I was limited in what I could do up there (I couldn’t very well dance), it lent itself to a more focused experience that gave way to contemplation, even for a kid. I do remember simply thinking up there.

That beloved tree faded off into the distance of time as my family moved to New Jersey eventually, and I grew well past the age when one climbs a tree for play. I haven’t been back there in decades. I often wonder what that road looks like now. Is the tree still there? Would I recognize it if I saw it? Would it recognize me?

Now and then, I try to imagine what it must have been like to only have understood the world from the ground. The sky had not yet hosted planes. There were no images of Earth from space. The highest folks got was atop a mountain, and even then, the trees were still the tallest things around them. Trees were always the grounded creatures that had a supremacy of height across the land.

As I understand, the tree is one of the oldest symbols in human culture. It has been the image that links the heavens, earth, and the underworld. It has stood for eternal life or spiritual wisdom or life itself. This makes sense to me because of the tree’s impressiveness: its strength, towering stature, life-giving role, shade-giving capability, monstrousness in a storm, anchored might, and extreme longevity. It makes a fine role model for creatures like us who are small, fickle, and fleeting.

The friendship I had with that tree in Pennsylvania might have formed the metaphor trees now hold for me. They are so beautiful, yes, in all seasons exquisite. But since one of them had been my peer all those years ago, I think of a tree as a being, although woody and much taller.

Right now, I’m looking out my window at the trees in my yard dancing wildly in the wind today. It’s halting to see such turbulence in nature, the way a tree can sway so far from center, bent over, agitated, pushed. It’s concerning to watch. You think, I hope they don’t snap. In extreme weather they certainly do, but still, they can withstand so much difficulty. They withstand insects and woodpeckers. They prevail through drought. They continue to grow after lightning strikes. They emerge and rise tall from concrete and stones, and rise again after having been cut to their base.

But we are like this, yes? Despite the hardships we endure, we continue anyway. We have our own version of lightning and drought. We grow around rocks and through concrete. Forces have pushed us like the high wind pushes trees, and we’ve bent--but we hold on in ways we can’t believe we were able to, and that’s common. This is what we do. That might sound too starry-eyed-positive if it weren’t so (thankfully) true.

I know from arborists that clumps of trees protect each other from the elements, as clumping and gathering does for so many creatures. Us, too. We connect, group, cooperate, love, encourage, pull each other along when needed. It’s all to pad our chances of success. This is so strong in us, that even in our darkest hours the act of giving to another person who is struggling can lift us up from the darkness rather than push us further into it. Remarkable though logical: clumping together means a better life.

And trees grow toward the sun. They will shed what they don’t need any longer, growing higher to the source that sustains them. They will even crane their necks to do this if needed. They will change course, growing themselves into a zig zag if it means they continue to thrive. We will do this, too. We’ll move towards what sustains us, rather than what lessens us. We’ll pay attention and pivot if needed, to ensure our path is on track to live better. And like a tree, this takes time, so we’ll settle in for the long game which change often asks of us. We can shift inch by inch from one reality to another, with patience and within constant sight of the sun.

Back in Pennsylvania, my dad would haul us kids around with him as he tapped into maple trees to collect the sap he’d later boil endlessly down to syrup on an outdoor cinder block fire pit. He’d hollow out a short length of wooden stick and then we’d trapse around the woods to find the maples. There we’d come upon one, stretched beautifully tall, waiting to drain its sap through a drilled hole in its trunk fitted with Dad’s wooden tap. The sap then ran down a long tube and into a plastic container. I can never forget the starkly unique flavor of maple syrup not quite boiled down thick enough. It ran watery into my pancakes and burst into my mouth and brain with the strongest flavor of maple syrup you can imagine. To think that experience all came from a tree.

Trees communicate with each other underground to send information around the forest. They grow together to improve their lot. They gradually create their own interactive forests. This is how it was with the special tree that lived across our dirt road so long ago. It eventually used its powers of connection and communication to bring my sister and I together with Brian Corby. At long last, we convened to share a particularly special bonding experience.

Even though Brian’s mom was my 4-H leader and regularly invited me to their home to teach me how to use a sewing machine, it was really the tree ‘situation’ that got Sue and I together with Brian one day in his garage. At first, there was a bit of shoe shuffling, and tentative laughter, before the real reason for our coming together began to emerge. There in front of Brian, with incredible courage, my sister Sue took the big risk of her life by agreeing to see what dog food tasted like. It was a daring and intimate moment that we all witnessed together. Sue hesitated at first, but in good time she was crunching soundly into hard lumps of pet food. Brian was as impressed as I was in awe, and both of us watched to see what, if anything, would come of my sister.

I was too cautious to nibble my way into Brian’s graces, but good for Sue that she was. I attribute this courage in part to the courage of the tree. Even though our tree was far down at the other end of the road from Brian’s garage, it stood as a teacher of strength and fortitude. Sue walked away triumphant that day, a veritable conqueror of the universe, with a cape flying behind her. No one would ever take that away from her. To this day, she’s one of the very few people I know who had the boldness to personally know pet fare.

Unfortunately, and fortunately, Brian remained disinterested in Sue and me for the remainder of the time our family lived there, as he should have. We were nuisances, I’m not going to lie, despite our understanding of ourselves. But we made out okay. At an early age we climbed our tree of life, and this gave lessons and knowledge and gifts that continue to today, although I’m not sure I know what they all are. It grew on us gradually, inch by inch, branch by branch, patiently leading us to the sun which we still grow towards today.