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Syntax of a Tree (c) 5/08 G. Estevez The leaves said, “We like your green dress. Are you one of us?” They brushed me, touched me as I walked by, just to see if I bled chlorophyll. “We don’t think she’s one of us.” They received no answer and chatted about my heritage, my lineage, looking for wood, bark, fur, or wing. They made up stories when they could not find the truth. Finally, the leaves turned to the Sun who turned them right back around, though it took him all day to do it. And the breeze ran through them, and they decided that it might be best to sleep on it. The leaves said, “Shhhhhh.” The branches asked what they could do to help – such go-betweens – such diplomats – such supportive translators between the quick green leaves and the slow dark trunk. “How can I help? I will bend to suit you, though it may take a little time. Do you need a nest? A home? A place to lay your head? You’re a funny looking creature, but I’ll figure out a way to reach you. To help you.” Branch received no answer that it could hear, and finally held fast to the voices that it knew, though it let a couple of leaves fall and slip away to sing a different kind of song. Another branch bounced in appreciation as a squirrel ran down its length. And yet another snapped at the wind blowing just a bit too hard. Branch resisted and snapped again, snapped and fell to join the softly lilting, wilting leaves on the ground below. Trunk was in the middle of a year long soliloquy on the benefits of being an only maple among the poplar and northern oak. Trunk felt my fingertips and offered no souvenir but the memory of bark that might have been peeled away, but was not. Trunk breathed a long, slow sigh of relief a few months later. But I was not there to hear it. Root felt me pass. “Hmm, heavier than rabbit, deer, maybe heavier than small bear.” Root paused. “Reach deeper,” root said. “Dream deeper,” root rumbled. “Soak it all in and be still.” “Come near that I may know you by your footsteps. Be still that I may know you by the pressure that you bear.” “Be still that you may grow here – that your roots may seek mine and grow to know me in the next fifty years and in the next.” “Be still and silent that you may know yourself.” And so, I listened as the wind blew. I let out my braid, loosened my hair, and watched the dance of each tendril reflecting brown and gold in the sun. I watched my arms tan and my fingers dance with pen in hand, speaking a language that the rest of my self could not. I stood tall in my body. Stretched my legs. Listened to the subtle, slow drum beat of my heart – doom toom, doom toom, doom toom – that stretched back to just beyond my birth. I imagined my skin peeled away, my heart exposed to the strength and purpose at the center of it all. I stood tall. My spirit flew within and without. Indescribable heighth and depth – every direction. I drank my fill of every wonder – of this eternal moment. I was rooted well. And here, I began to understand the syntax of the trees. I’ll keep listening and perhaps in fifty years, I will be able to answer root and trunk, branch and leaf, in their own language. |