Trees.
There's a birch tree in my yard whose whorls and gnarls of black lettering seemed, to young Zach and younger me, like pursed lips. We called it the Whistling Birch. These days, they look far more like eyes.
My mother taught me to speak to trees, when I was small, and more importantly, to listen to them. To feel their heartbeats, find their veins. When they must be cut, you ask nicely. When they must be moved, you transplant them to the best soil, with the most sunlight, and make sure it's alright with them. You treat them with respect, for they hold more wisdom than you could gather in a lifetime.
When I was in Maine, I saw the tree from my shamanic journey. There were no crimson flowers growing from its bare, crown-like branches, no owl perched there, no opening in its base....but it was the tree nonetheless. I shed my hat and backpack and walked up to it, head bowed, where it stood alone in its clearing. I touched it first with my fingertips, then my palm, and finally pressed my forehead into its bark. I could feel myself melt into it, and I knew two things: First, that it would leave lines in my forehead, and I was being foolish, that I was nowhere but here and now...and second, that should I, here, now, pull myself away roughly, I could easily lose myself entirely to it. The thought didn't scare me, though, but calmed me beyond belief. I slowly drew back, separating head first, then palm, then fingertips, picked up my stuff, and walked away.
It would have been so easy to stay there, on that jut of land striking outwards into the bay. Hermit Island...and though it's no longer an island, it would be so easy for me to become that hermit. Solitude has much to do with my personal sort of magic, and trees hold in themselves a peculiar sort of solitude. Maybe, if I remember how to listen to them, I'll hunger less for loneliness.
My mother taught me to speak to trees, when I was small, and more importantly, to listen to them. To feel their heartbeats, find their veins. When they must be cut, you ask nicely. When they must be moved, you transplant them to the best soil, with the most sunlight, and make sure it's alright with them. You treat them with respect, for they hold more wisdom than you could gather in a lifetime.
When I was in Maine, I saw the tree from my shamanic journey. There were no crimson flowers growing from its bare, crown-like branches, no owl perched there, no opening in its base....but it was the tree nonetheless. I shed my hat and backpack and walked up to it, head bowed, where it stood alone in its clearing. I touched it first with my fingertips, then my palm, and finally pressed my forehead into its bark. I could feel myself melt into it, and I knew two things: First, that it would leave lines in my forehead, and I was being foolish, that I was nowhere but here and now...and second, that should I, here, now, pull myself away roughly, I could easily lose myself entirely to it. The thought didn't scare me, though, but calmed me beyond belief. I slowly drew back, separating head first, then palm, then fingertips, picked up my stuff, and walked away.
It would have been so easy to stay there, on that jut of land striking outwards into the bay. Hermit Island...and though it's no longer an island, it would be so easy for me to become that hermit. Solitude has much to do with my personal sort of magic, and trees hold in themselves a peculiar sort of solitude. Maybe, if I remember how to listen to them, I'll hunger less for loneliness.