the secret in every tree
When we are broken and lost, the world gets very small. The road turns narrow, as we nurse wounds, chew on betrayal and regret and stagnate in tiny rooms.
A good 25 years ago, I found myself in a drawn-out breakup. I don’t think I did more than work and eat, as we navigated in silence around the apartment and took turns walking the dog. It was more than puppy love, and could have been something real but we both knew it was leading nowhere now. She had quit her job, and was just getting stoned and painting watercolor flowers in the corners of the books on the shelf all day long. One odd Thursday, I packed the few things I owned into a handful of milk crates and left a note on them - that I would be back to get them in a few weeks.
I think I had not gone above 14th street for a good six months - but somehow, a day later, I found myself deep in the countryside, upstate. The air was thick with bugs. I fell asleep early, and woke at dawn. There was a new delivery of fire wood and I took it upon myself to chop it to pieces after breakfast, the long handle of the axe smooth in my hands. There was something so simple about the positioning of each limb, as it teetered – imagining the center point, hefting the axe and swinging down hard. The satisfying crack, as things split and fell, defeated in the wet grass.
The thought of her and our apartment, the dog – they could have been millions of miles away even though it was just hundreds. They were already from another life, an old skin to shed.
All the same, the wood chopping turned brutal and I found myself staring at an old tree across the road. The axe was put down, and I looked both ways. No one must see me do this, as I breathed in the bark and moss, closed my eyes and hugged the tree as tight as I could. I have never gone in for any new age stuff, but it felt good to give it a chance. It felt truly ridiculous, and I began laughing at myself.
Maybe that is the real secret, the hippy medicine that is offered by every tree waiting to be held.