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Anatomy of a Tree

Spruce
Trees are infinitely inspiring to me. It is not for nothing that trees are used as a metaphor for humans. There are many lessons to learn from the trees and their way of being.

First their leaves, reaching out for the light and photosynthesizing it into energy. For instance - these feathery spruce needles smell divine and I can never go for any forest stroll or hike without rubbing a bit between my fingers and sneaking it into my water bottle. They add a citrusy-forest aroma to the water, and also contain vitamins C.

Like the tree, we reach up and for the light, and aspire to become more than just our flesh and blood. Incorporating light into our life brings an energy that is not possible to obtain by other means of nourishment.

Leaves not only absorb but also filter the light in so many ways, creating Komorebi patterns on the environment beneath them. This is perhaps also a way to protect the areas that cannot handle too much light from blinding the darkest areas. Gentle or dim light is valuable for allowing other life forms to exists, allowing also our shadow parts to develop and express themselves.

Forest Magic
Tree branches spread their arms as if in prayer or dance, and act as a host for many birds, squirrels, other critters and on their own are like a forest for various lichens, mosses and even ferns! Some of these life forms give nourishment back to the tree, that the tree cannot absorb form the light or the soil on its own.

Our hands are capable not only of creating, but also of nourishing and allowing or enabling others to create and be productive. Our hands not only give but also receive.
Woodpecker's Braile
This tree trunk was marked by a woodpecker, who searched for bugs within the bark, and while at it writing a whole novel in Braile letters! Different types of woodpeckers leave a different pattern. Can you read what it says?

Woven Bark
Redcedar bark is thick, strong and flexible, withstands decay for decades. Strips of inner redcedar bark is used by First Nations of the West Coast to craft many useful artifacts - from ropes and fishing nets to baskets and even garments. Woven into ponchos and hats, they would protect the person wearing them for getting soaked wet. And they also smell wonderfully dry, woody and, well, cedary!

Weeping Spruce
The bark is protective and strong, but when damaged - it oozes healing sap, like this (resin-) weeping spruce. The sap is not only healing for the tree itself - protecting it form dehydration, fungal infections and further decay. It also has healing properties for humans. Spruce pitch is used in various herbal medicine preparations, for example, in a salve to relive chest colds, muscle pains, sprains, and more.

Weeping Spruce
Our tears too are healing. And our wounds, although make us appear damaged, also allow us to open up and give more of ourselves and express our love to the world around us.

Old Fella
Really old dude... Smiling tree stump.
Even though it was chopped up by ignorant loggers almost a hundred years ago, it keeps smiling. I don't know how one does that, but I sure hope to learn that skill before I turn 100 years old.

Interwoven

Intertwined roots that seem to have a life of their own, reaching for symbiotic embrace. People can live all their life wondering and exploring, but there is always the deep desire underneath to go back to one's roots. This is not a metaphor, but an essential soul need: the desire to connect to and nourish from the deepest part of our psyche. The one that grounds us, protects us from swaying to far from our truth, and also the part that draws nourishment from the depths of the earth. Our roots, like the tree's, connect us to our ancestors and also to the earth (from which we come and to which we shall return).

Moss Meditation

Lightree
Wake up to the sunrise caressing your tent's screened window.  Crawl out of the tent quietly. Don't bother with the shoes. Tiptoe under the canopy of trees. Walk softly on the moss-covered forest floor. Slowly and softly place each foot on the ground. Feel the moss tickling your heels and foot arches and toes, then slowly yielding to your weight, then remove each foot slowly from the ground. Look back. Have you left a footstep? How long till the moss recovered its original density?

Droplets of dew may tickle your feet and cool them down. Don't let the chill stop you from taking another step and another step. Try not to break any branches. Listen to the birds that have already woken up. Can you see any of them?

Find a moss-covered log and walk on it, placing heel in front of toe in front of heel. See how far you can go walking only on moss-covered logs. When you've given up,  collapse on the moss, looking up at the canopy. Burn a little cedar wood chip or spruce bough as a morning incense. An offering of gratitude.

Moss meditation




Marriage of Life and Death

Earlier this winter, as I went deeper into the forest trails, my eyes met with a devastating sight. After several days of rain and wind storms, two beautiful, tall and rather ancient Douglas fir trees (well over 200 years in my estimate, although this is probably young in fir years) were uprooted and simply flipped over. It's a sad sight, and one that literally pierced my heart and brought tears to my eyes. The air around the trees was filled with their tragedy, and I heard their screams and shrieks of pain from being uprooted and losing their life-giving connection to the earth.

Here is the strange thing about an ancient fallen tree: it dies a slow painful death. Perhaps even move the course of several weeks when in such moist conditions that as the rainforest. Maybe it's not that slow in tree years, but it sure seemed prolonged to me, as I was walking by the same trail several weeks in a row, and still saw signs of life in these two fierce yet fallen giants.

First the roots alone feel the change: they are accustomed to life of darkness and the cold yet nutritious moisture of the earth. All of a sudden they are exposed to the foreign presence of air and light. The tree's equivalent of nervous system must have felt the pain of the roots as they leave the ground and disconnect from the smaller rootlets, and the shock along the tree's spine as it hit the ground. Over the next few days, if not weeks, the tree's storage of moisture will get used up, perhaps slower than before. The roots will attempt to cling to any moisture they reach from the damp rainforest air, but circumstances are largely not in their favour.

I get closer to the tree. Touch its rain-soaked bark. Feel the tremendous pain its in. The tree that once had stood so proud and high above all creatures is now lying horizontally. I can feel its pulse, weak, trembling but still there. I pat the damp moss on the base of its bark and on the formerly superficial portion of its root system. What about all the lesser life forms on the tree? Did they notice the change? Are they worried about their future? Perhaps not. The tree's body will nourish these fungi, fern, lichens and moss strands for countless years to come. And water is present in abundance for these plants from prehistoric kingdoms.

And this is how life meets death. Or perhaps the other way around - death is the one that greets life and reaches out to it. In the rainforest the coexistence of these two opposites is the most obvious, natural. And if it weren't for the drama and tragedy of the storm, those two states of being just weave in and out of each other seamlessly. The trees took about four weeks to use up their water, shut down their entire systems of livelihood, and say their farewells to the world as they lay horizontally and stare at the barren skies through the space their missing canopy left behind. After checking their plus this weekend, I am pretty sure that they are now among the dead. Not only are the needles no longer green, many have already began falling to the ground. And there is something you cannot see, but only feel, that tells me they are now just inanimate objects, vegetal corpses providing nutrients to the new generation of trees, bushes, housing birds and squirrels, bugs and microorganisms that will take many years to penetrate the strong essential oils in the heartwood to completely break it down. It will become, eventually, part of the soil and part of the root system of those new plants and create an intricate piece of the rainforest ever changing landscape. 


We humans are strange creatures. Life should be life; and death should be plain and simple, cut and dry. But how many of us live in a state of a dream (or a nightmare) and constantly attempt to escape the present moment? How much of our lives we wish we were somewhere else than where we are, and be someone else - or be with somebody else than the people and creatures that are present in our lives? I am beginning to think that constant discontent with the present moment is the root of all illnesses. That and the lack of gratitude to what IS in our lives, what is present, what we "have" so to speak (at the end of the day, I don't believe ownership truly amounts to much). That obsession of what would happen next - after we finish work, or after we finish resting; after we finish living, or once we stop dying. This mindset is so futile, counter-productive and ultimately shows very little gratitude. We should be thankful every moment that we are alive, and literally, live up to what that entails. 

Nerve's Root

Uprooted by Ayala Moriel
Uprooted, a photo by Ayala Moriel on Flickr.
"A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so" (Herman Hesse, Bäume: Betrachtungen und Gedichte [Trees: Reflections and Poems] ).

On living vertically: the tree stands still. It only knows upward motion to the light; or drilling to the depths of the dark soil with its roots. Even when the roots need to bypass a resistant rock or crack through a boulder, they are still vertically-oriented. Even when the branches are twining around an obstacle (another life-form, a building or a cliff) they are still climbing towards the sun.

The tree suffers silently. The tree does not even dream of escape or refuge from discomfort or disaster. Fires, logging and frost will attack it to its death, which it will welcome with barely as much as a sigh. It only knows of wandering and travel from the little birds that perch on its branches and whisper their sweet songs of freedom into its foliage.

When its arms are severed and when it is uprooted, a tree does not complain. It continues growing, silently, creaking only when the wind attempts to bend it beyond its range of flexibility. I long for the trees. When the snow and ice piles heavy on its boughs, the tree will carry these heavy waters as a water-bearer with a big family waiting in the village.

Despite all of these limits, the tree knows love. To the birds nesting on its boughs, feeding their youngsters. To the beetles that eat through its bark and tickle its thick skin. To the wind that caresses its tender foliage in springtime. To the children that climb its branches, jump on them and scrape their knees on them. To the earth that hugs its roots, and to the underground parasites pinching at its nerve endings. And even to the savage winds that uproot it; the loggers who take away its pride. It will still continue to grow and move forward, sending shoots of new life around the mother-trunk. 
 I am grateful and perhaps also cruel. In my apothecary I hold many lifetimes of trees and forests combined: essences from the fruits of junipers; needles of fir, spruce, cypress and pine; flowers of linden and balsam poplar; heartwood of santal, cedar, agar and oak; and tears (or sap) from frankincense, myrrh and hundreds of years old olive trees.

From my horizontal point of view, I might envy the tree now. I long for its dangerous exposure to the four elements. Admire its brave silence in face of all adversity. a sudden spring wind had sent me her blessing and promise of hope with a sprinkle of ume (Japanese sour plum) petals on my exercise mat that's been permanently placed by the windows now. The Hanami season is fading, and the scent of balsam poplar buds fills the air with its cotton-like warmth, reminiscent of honey, apricots, yeast and cloves.
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