Said my mother on my 13th birthday. Worst birthday ever.
It's a true story. My heart was broken. It took a long time for me to find my way back to the forest and the trees after that gift on my 13th birthday. I am in love with trees. They are strong, gentle beings. They live in one spot, rooted to the place where the seed that brought them into this world was deposited. Their rings tell the story of the planet and sometimes, of human interference. Their bark bears those stories, too. They are wise and filled with curiosity about humans who stop and notice them; even converse with them. They are our allies, breathing out life for humans, as well as sharing their immune system, phytoncides, with us. There is nothing more beautiful than a tree.
The Tattooed Tree
I recently visited a local arboretum and the giant 130-year old Weeping Beech tree, under whose branches there’s a boardwalk so we humans can walk around the base of this gentle giant and view her in all her magnificence … and all her tattoos.
She’s been defaced over the years with initials, names, words and hearts that beg the promise of love everlasting; love which never lasts as long as the scars on the tree will last; permanent scars.
I spent some time with this tree this past week; this beautiful Weeping Beech; ironically named, for all the pain it’s felt with every knife carving into it. And yet, what I found was not anger, or a victim. What I found was a sadness and, something else; an immense honor in the scars it bears. As I placed my hand on this tree and listened, these were the words I imagined:
“Believe it or not, it got easier over the years to feel the sharp blade of someone leaving a lasting legacy in my bark. Yes, at first, there was surprise, even horror, until I tried to understand them. I realized that those someones saw me as something capable of holding that legacy they probably didn’t even know they longed for; knowing that I’d live beyond them, carrying this moment in time far longer than any human could. I might even imagine that they believed other humans would come by and wonder ‘who carved this?’ or ‘who were these lovers, soulmates or was their love returned?’ I realized that they entrusted me to tell their story, or at least hold the mystery and wonder of their story. How sad that humans try so hard to be seen, known and heard! That their presence here on this planet isn’t enough for them. Too bad they couldn’t see this from the perspective of a tree; never moving from the spot on which I was seeded or planted and yet capable of dancing in the wind and being a home to the birds and other living beings! What more could these humans want?
I only wish they realized that I, too, was a living being, with a wish to create a legacy through my presence. That, while one carving might not be deep enough to allow pathogens in; that I’ll usually compartmentalize the wound and it will eventually heal over, that repeated carvings might allow an invasive fungus or microbe in; that leaving their legacy might end mine; that multiple carvings deface me to the point of unrecognizable bark until I am no longer a fine specimen of a Weeping Birch. I am now a fine specimen of human ignorance. And one ignorance leads to another; permission to carved something in me because someone, before you, did so already.
I hold hundreds of scars; tattoos; evidence of human ignorance and longing. I’ve survived. In fact, I live to be a teacher of these ignorant acts of humans; not with anger or resentment. You can see how strong I am; that I continue to grow in my one spot allotted me for life. I live to be a teacher of kindness and compassion. When someone places their hands on me today, there is a sweetness and gentleness to that touch. Sometimes, there is even an apology, a whisper, “Please forgive what they did to you”; oh-so-softly, so only I can hear it.
What more could a tree want in that moment?”
Linda Lombardo 11/30/2018
She’s been defaced over the years with initials, names, words and hearts that beg the promise of love everlasting; love which never lasts as long as the scars on the tree will last; permanent scars.
I spent some time with this tree this past week; this beautiful Weeping Beech; ironically named, for all the pain it’s felt with every knife carving into it. And yet, what I found was not anger, or a victim. What I found was a sadness and, something else; an immense honor in the scars it bears. As I placed my hand on this tree and listened, these were the words I imagined:
“Believe it or not, it got easier over the years to feel the sharp blade of someone leaving a lasting legacy in my bark. Yes, at first, there was surprise, even horror, until I tried to understand them. I realized that those someones saw me as something capable of holding that legacy they probably didn’t even know they longed for; knowing that I’d live beyond them, carrying this moment in time far longer than any human could. I might even imagine that they believed other humans would come by and wonder ‘who carved this?’ or ‘who were these lovers, soulmates or was their love returned?’ I realized that they entrusted me to tell their story, or at least hold the mystery and wonder of their story. How sad that humans try so hard to be seen, known and heard! That their presence here on this planet isn’t enough for them. Too bad they couldn’t see this from the perspective of a tree; never moving from the spot on which I was seeded or planted and yet capable of dancing in the wind and being a home to the birds and other living beings! What more could these humans want?
I only wish they realized that I, too, was a living being, with a wish to create a legacy through my presence. That, while one carving might not be deep enough to allow pathogens in; that I’ll usually compartmentalize the wound and it will eventually heal over, that repeated carvings might allow an invasive fungus or microbe in; that leaving their legacy might end mine; that multiple carvings deface me to the point of unrecognizable bark until I am no longer a fine specimen of a Weeping Birch. I am now a fine specimen of human ignorance. And one ignorance leads to another; permission to carved something in me because someone, before you, did so already.
I hold hundreds of scars; tattoos; evidence of human ignorance and longing. I’ve survived. In fact, I live to be a teacher of these ignorant acts of humans; not with anger or resentment. You can see how strong I am; that I continue to grow in my one spot allotted me for life. I live to be a teacher of kindness and compassion. When someone places their hands on me today, there is a sweetness and gentleness to that touch. Sometimes, there is even an apology, a whisper, “Please forgive what they did to you”; oh-so-softly, so only I can hear it.
What more could a tree want in that moment?”
Linda Lombardo 11/30/2018
