Listen to the Trees
“The land is the real teacher. All we need as students is mindfulness.”
Robin Wall Kimmerer
Near where I live is a park that runs along the shore of a lake. It’s a short drive there, and I only go when I’m taking the car out for other errands. My habit has been to walk while listening to podcasts or talking on the phone. The trail loops through towering hardwoods—birch, maple, oak, sweet gum—and loblolly pine, along the edge of lapping lake water, and past many appealing tables and benches. Squirrels scuttle in the leaves near the path. Rabbits freeze in the grassy areas or lope away as walkers approach.
I rarely experienced any of this, plugged in as I was. Earbuds hung from either side of my head, like a loose noose, making me practically dead to all that was immediate and alive around me.
Until one day I made a different decision. It was the day before an Illumination ceremony with Kathy, cold and sunny. Bundled in a coat and scarf, hands gloved, phone silented in my pocket, earbuds in the car, I struck out with a simple intention: to pay attention. I had no expectations, except of myself—that I would only look, listen, and breathe deeply.
The first thing I noticed was the rich, earthy, piney smell of the forest. I sucked it deep into my lungs. The second thing I noticed was how hard it is to really pay attention. I continually disappeared into thought, from the serious—my parents, the upcoming ceremony—to the mundane—do we need milk?
Still, I had seen the winter light bending in the water and the way, in late afternoon, it gives color to berries on the holly trees and the russet leaves still clinging to some branches. The moments I was awake in this way to the trees, the creatures in the undergrowth, the birds calling from their perches, I was in community.
One time in particular, I got lost deep in the past, all the way back to childhood, telling an old story about why I was the way I was, why I felt different and alone. Something happened to rouse me out of it. I can’t say what. The snap of a branch? A squirrel chattering? I don’t know. I just woke up. There’s no better description for it. The thoughts, the story, popped like a bubble, and I saw all the trees standing around as the living beings they are, like people gathered together talking.
“Oh, hi!” I said in my mind to the trees. And they greeted me back. “Hello!” they said. A pause. “You know, we’re here all the time.” I couldn’t help but smile and could have sworn I felt their mirth. How could I be alone? Kin are all around.
“When I am among the trees,…
they give off such hints of gladness.”
Mary Oliver
