EKPHRASTIC EXPRESSION: CELEBRATING TREES AND THE RVR COMMUNITY
The Day a Tree Hugged Me
“The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. The second-best time is now.” — Chinese Proverb
The very first photograph my mother gave me was one where she was standing under a glorious Moreton Bay Fig tree and I was cradled, a newborn, in her arms.
During all the years I have treasured that image I never thought to ask, “Who took the photo?” I just assumed it had been my father because he was the only other human being who truly understood how it felt to love a tree as much as he loved those nearest and dearest to him.
I believe it was my father who began a personal tradition of visiting the tree every year on his birthday.
Special memories for me involved all my childhood birthday parties being celebrated down in the north paddock, a feast spread on a picnic blanket, and cousins and friends playing in and around the tree.
I had seen my father hug the tree every time he celebrated a birthday and it wasn’t long before I imitated him, wrapping thin little arms around the tree’s girth to give it a birthday hug. On those days, I would whisper to the tree that it was the tree’s birthday too and I soon began to develop a habit of bringing the tree small gifts to celebrate its special day.
Sometimes I brought a storybook to the tree and sat beneath its spreading canopy to read aloud an Aesop’s tale or tell a story made from my very own imagination. Other times, I would come armed with two birthday cupcakes, one for each of us.
When I returned the next day, the tree’s cake was always gone and I imagined it ate it for supper under the cover of darkness.
In all my eighty years I missed only two birthday visits to the Moreton Bay fig and on those times, I instructed my father to give it a hug from me, insisting he tell the tree I had sent him in my place.
When I was an adolescent my father installed a pump in a nearby creek, dug a little trench and installed some water pipe.
On my thirteenth birthday, Dad switched the pump on to deliver a nice cool drink to the tree. I told the tree it was a gift from us both as we were expecting a very dry summer.
The tree survived the drought beautifully, spreading its prolific shallow roots to seek moisture wherever it could find it, especially after the creek succumbed to the seasonal dryness, drying out to reveal a bed of mud that dried and cracked wide open in the heat.
In my 50th year, my mother passed away, leaving my father devastated and alone. I moved back to the farmhouse with my husband and two children and cared for him and our tree until Dad grew sick and very frail.
I often wheeled my father in his chair to visit the tree on sunny days. Together we sat in the peace and solitude afforded by the surrounding countryside.
Words were not necessary — Dad was content to gaze at the tree while I read quietly from my phone, treasuring the companionship of my ailing father.
As the fates would have it, he passed away in his wheelchair at the foot of our tree on one glorious spring afternoon, merely a week before his 78th birthday. His final wishes left the farm and everything on it to me and I vowed I would guard it and the tree zealously, hoping that one of my two children would one day take the reins from me.
My beloved husband died of an unexpected heart embolism two years later.
Distraught, I spent much of my free time under the tree, telling it of my blistering grief and the emptiness of heart I was forced to endure. I spent many more days than my birth anniversary, hugging the tree, drawing support and courage from its roughhewn bark.
My children had shown no interest or overwhelming love for the tree and I lived with consternation for the tree’s future should I ever pass away unexpectedly.
“I know you love that old tree, mum,” my son would grumble over shared scones with jam and cream, “but it is a Moreton Bay Fig. You know its rotten invasive root system spreads for metres, and that’s only what you can see. It is ruining that pasture for anything else.”
“It is,” I defended hotly, “but the pasture belongs to the tree and the tree will stay as long as it grows healthy and strong.” I glared at my children warningly. “Nothing happens to that tree as long as I live. This farm is yours to do with as you like when I go and I expect you to protect the tree for as long as you hold onto the property. I understand that you can’t control the tree’s destiny if you sell the property.”
This statement was always met with reluctant agreement and I knew in my heart that eventually, the farm would go under the auctioneer’s hammer and the tree’s destiny would be in the hands of new owners.
My 80th birthday dawned under cool, clear autumn skies accompanied by the trilling of birdsong. The birdlife had long been encouraged by my dear husband and I continued to delight in their daily visits, which helped to keep my husband near but also kept the dark hole in my heart open and raw.
I forced myself to leave the comfort of my bed, dressed slowly and made my way to the north pasture. I hadn’t felt particularly well for some time and I blamed my lack of vitality on my husband’s passing and the extra work involved in keeping a small holding running.
Maybe, I ruminated sadly, that I would be forced to place the property under the auctioneer’s hammer sooner than anticipated.
My children were coming to share a birthday lunch with me but I wanted to visit my tree before they arrived, so I traipsed slowly to the north paddock, stopping occasionally to gather strength and appreciate the beautiful vista of my property.
The tree stood tall, visible down in the north paddock but it had never felt as far away as on this day. I knew that the time was coming when I too would be visiting in a wheelchair, and grieved, knowing that my children would not always be available to wheel me to its welcoming girth on special days.
I finally drew close, stumbling slightly a few times as I tripped over gnarly roots that broke through the soil metres from the tree.
“Hello, dear Morty,” I addressed the glorious evergreen with the name my father had bestowed upon the tree, decades earlier.
Stumbling again, I reached out to steady myself against the tree’s uneven trunk.
“Do be careful,” a soft voice floated ethereally upon the breeze.
I twisted my neck in surprise, concerned that someone had arrived before me.
There was nobody and I shook away a foolish fantasy that the tree had spoken.
Morty’s leaves shifted in response to an autumn breath; a slight sigh of air that ruffled leafy feathers. I imagined my tree preening in anticipation of a birthday hug.
“Happy birthday to us,” I reached my portly arms around Morty’s waist and laid my cheek wearily upon his bark. The walk from the house had exhausted me far beyond expectations.
“Happy birthday,” whispered a gentle voice, caressing my ears, awakening me to senses I had not known existed.
“Morty?” I queried through incredulous lips, knowing deep within that the tree was indeed, speaking to me.
“It is I,” whispered the tree. “Will you do something for me?” The question was a suggestion of sound wisping through the air.
I nodded, pressing my aching chest into the trunk of my friend.
“Do you have your speaking device?” asked the suggestion of a voice; a mere spectral vibration that teased my mind.
“My phone?”
I felt Morty tremble and marvelled at the sensation. I nodded.
“Call your family and tell them where you are. Do that for me.”
“There’s no need,” I whispered. “I will be back at the house before they arrive.”
“Call, my dear,” insisted the softest voice. “Do this for me.”
I reached carefully into my jacket pocket to retrieve my phone and speed-dialled my son. He answered on the third ring.
“Yeah, mum. Is there something you want me to bring?”
“No, no,” I replied, sensing Morty’s urgency. “I just want to let you know, if I’m not at the house when you arrive, I am having my tree birthday visit.”
“Okaaay,” Jamie replied, obviously wondering what was up. “Shouldn’t be too long before we leave.”
“Say, “I love you,” Morty prompted me.
“I love you and Sally, Jamie. See you soon.” I disconnected the call halfway through Jamie’s reciprocal, “Love you, too, mum.”
My phone slipped from my fingers and fell to rest in a soft pile of detritus. It seemed unimportant in the moment.
“This is a wondrous day, Morty,” I murmured against his rough-hewn chest. “Such a happy, happy birthday for us both.”
“And a happy death day, too, my lovely friend,” sighed the sentinel being from the depths of its leafy soul. “This too, is a day we will share. My body is diseased as is yours and though I will stand for some time to come, I will be eaten from the inside out, will wilt and slowly succumb to the ravages of my infliction.”
I became aware of soft leafy limbs folding gently around my weakened body, cradling me, preventing my slow spill to the uneven surface of the ground, still hard and cold from winter frosts. Tears welled and spilled as I realised this was how my family would find me — taken within the gentle embrace of my life-long friend.
I sighed as my life force ebbed, knowing my dear parents and husband awaited and somehow, I knew, Morty would manifest again in a garden paradise, to spread his glorious tubers in fertile soil, blessed for all eternity.
Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth.” — Herman Hesse
Me and Trees
I have a particular fondness for trees.
My photograph collection is dominated by trees of all varieties; tall trees, short trees, trees with glorious, perfectly balanced foliage, trees with diseases and blight, trees that could not be described as either attractive or pleasing to the eye and yet they are all trees — they exist in a myriad of colours, forms and serve a multitude of purposes. Beautiful in their differences, trees grace the earth’s surface, providing us with shade and serving as windbreaks — protection from the elements. Their leaves and bark capture and contain airborne dust while their leaves filter the air we breathe and release life-supporting oxygen.
Just like people, every plant is uniquely crafted, forming part of a whole that is all life on earth.
“It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air that emanation from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit.” — Robert Louis Stevenson
Sinus Kosinus treated us to her beautiful July composition, “I Want to Lie”. Thank you, Sinus.
Please enjoy this gorgeous composition by Jaylee Reign
Another story about a special tree from my earlier days on Medium. RL💙💦
