My Morning with a Tree

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The cycle continues. I turn to the tree, see it with fresh eyes, remember the rule, accept what needs to go, stay, or change — the truth as I know it at that time — and do the work. Then I turn away for awhile to pull the fallen branches aside, before turning back to the tree. Over and over, until I’m nearly dizzy. But I’m also seeing more and better all the time, and have found a rhythm. Improving a tree, myself, or a relationship isn’t always easy… but it can be simple. What I need to do is usually staring me right in the face.

Yes, simple steps, but not always easy. The little trimmers don’t always do the trick. Some branches are thick. I need help, or at least a better tool, as sometimes I’m stronger than others, and sometimes the obstacles are bigger than others. I use a handsaw, and it’s hard for me. No longer do I hear the gentle “snips” of the little trimmers or the bigger “snaps” of the loppers. Now I hear the back-and-forth of metal teeth destroying, but life is a cycle and to make space for something beautiful and new to grow, I have to let something else die, or at least transition somehow. I have to let go. How many times have I had to let go of an outmoded belief? A particular dream? A person? Many times. Gracefully leaving, or allowing someone or something else to leave, is doable. Sometimes it is easier than others, but, regardless, I must not hold on to what I know isn’t helping me or delude myself into thinking that holding on is helping others. They deserve the space to grow, too. Two branches have grown across each other at cross purposes. I must choose. Reminding myself that creation and growth come from destruction helps a little, but I’m still afraid to pick the wrong branch. I remember the rule — incline toward the sky. I choose. I hear the tree exhale in relief when one of two branches that was rubbing against each other — in a way that made both of them scarred — falls to the ground.

“Much better,” the tree sighs. “The temporary pain of the push and pull of the saw, the temporary rawness of the cut was so worth it.” I know. The branches, beliefs, or people were close and dearly held, it’s true, and it might feel strange at first to be without the constant rubbing of the offending branch, a rubbing that was sometimes comforting simply because it was familiar, but, objectively, it was causing damage to both branches, to the tree. Now the tree can breathe more easily. As can I.

Two hours later, the sun higher in the sky, I’ve steadily worked my way in from the perimeter to where I’m now shaded within the intimacy of the tree… we’ve danced together until I’ve been permitted in to be up close to the trunk. The view is different from in here, looking out instead of in. I run my hands over the smooth multi-trunked haven. I snip off a few more thorns here and there so I can get even closer. I gently climb up into the tree and trim up deep and high in the middle. It’s a little more dangerous, but still — possibly more? — rewarding. It’s hard to believe how far I’ve come.

Resting in the tree, I take stock. I’m tired and sweaty, but it’s a good thing. I’m scratched in a few places, but that’s to be expected. And it’s worth it. A little healthy conflict opens the space for truth, honesty, and positive change. This morning and the tree have reminded me that trees, people, and life can be full of thorns, but they won’t hurt me as much, if at all, if I move slowly, gently, and with positive intent. And if I feel hurt by them, then so be it; I’ll heal. Better to take the occasional calculated risk in life than to always wonder “what if.” Better to risk a broken heart than have one that never gets used. Little leaves litter my hair and cling to my skin, but soon cool water will rush over me, cleansing me like my tears do for my soul. It isn’t all about me, though, as the tree has been through a lot today, too. I turn on the hose to water the tree. I thank it and am grateful that water and time restore us both. My hands are starting to blister from the tools, and my muscles are sore from reaching out, from craning my neck, from reaching up on my tiptoes. This is a small price to pay to be better, to be real, to incline toward the sky.

Tomorrow, I’ll go on my morning walk again. I’ll greet the other walkers I pass with an “Oh, hello, you’re the beautiful ocotillo cactus, aren’t you? And you… you’re the hollyhocks, yes? Good to see you.” I know my neighbors by the kind of plants in their yard, each with their own cycle, challenges, and beauty. Sometimes I wish my life, past and present, was simpler and easier. Sometimes I wish that despite being well-rooted, expansive, drought-resistant, and fairly strong, that I were something that didn’t get so tangled, that didn’t need the usually hard work of being trimmed quite so often. But, again inclining toward the sky, I remember that it’s all part of learning, of growth, of joyous living. I pass another neighbor and introduce myself, “Hi, I’m the palo brea tree that’s in bloom.”

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