In the middle of an open field, a stone's throw from my house,there stands a giant oak that I must have photographed athousand times.
It is a lovely tree. Striking, imposing. You might even callit glorious.
It flings its branches out in a wide embrace of sky and cloudand wind and whatever else may come. Up high, in its crown, it isa dancer leaping towards the stars.
Standing alone in the middle of an open space has allowed itthe luxury of flourishing freely, taking its true place in the worldof form.
Come summer it is crowned in splendid green. At its feet it givesshelter from the blistering Boland heat, where many a wearyneighbourhood worker will come with their lunchbox, or a beggarfinds solace in its merciful shade.
When my husband was still alive, he would pass under the treeon his daily walk to the river with the dogs. And on his way backhe would often sit for a while and watch the dogs play in the field.I took so many pictures of him under that enormous tree, gilded inthe warm hues of sunset, his gaze fixed on some far off horizon.
It was our tree.
On our walks we would often stop to admire it, hand in hand,and regard it in all of its altered states through summer andautumn, winter and spring. Never the same, but still resolutelyitself, firmly rooted, standing its ground.
These days, I pass by the tree alone. With the dog. I still pause,still take out my camera. And when autumn arrives, I still lingerfor longer.
There's something to a tree in autumn that touches us deeply,perhaps stirring up the murky depths of our collectiveunconscious. Maybe we're reminded of our kinship to thesetranquil giants, our ancient connection. Were trees not our firsthome, our maternal cradle before we became human?
As autumn sets in and the oak sheds its emerald crown,imagine a gnarly old man demurely emerging from a lavish gown.I find this metamorphosis most captivating. It's as if the tree'sessence is being revealed. And with it our deep affinity tothem, our shared experience of life as transient in the midstof the eternal.
English gardeners of yesteryear keenly sensed the vital place oftrees in the man-made landscape. Most famous among them wasCapability Brown, also known as the Shakespeare of the Englishgarden three centuries ago. He perfected the art of placing a treeas sculpture in the open-spaced parklands of a stately home- think Downton Abbey (or rather the place where it was filmed)and its ancient Lebanon Cedars.
Herman Hesse, the great German Nobel laureate, was soenthralled by trees that he wrote them a lengthy love letter."Trees are the penetrating preachers of nature: in their highestboughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity… Nothing isholier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree," hewrites. "When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked deathwound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the rings of itsyears, its scars, its struggles, all the sickness, the narrow yearsand the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the stormsendured. Trees are sanctuaries. Once you have mastered the artof truly listening, you will learn their truth: A kernel is hidden inme, a spark, I am life from eternal life… My strength is trust.I trust that God is in me."
I'm reminded of Hesse's profound words when I pass our tree inautumn. The dog ploughs madly into the rustling bed of leaves,cavorting crazily and chasing her tail. I laugh and secretly wish Ihad the confidence to do the same. I would plunge into thoseleaves and abandon myself to their prickly touch, to their smell ofdust and earth and mulch. Then gaze up at the exquisitecalligraphy of the naked branches above.
And I will find peace there at its feet, in silent communionas in prayer, embraced in this healing bliss.
And I will come to rest in the joy of being alive. And ofsimply being.
