Standing by a tree in summer

(I’ve had this experience, and these thoughts, many times, but let me tell it as one, not many.)

I stop, halfway up the mountain, in a pullout made for this purpose. A ponderosa pine has inspired me to stop: the desire to say hello, to smell the sun-warmed vanilla smell of it. I turn off the engine and step out into the warm summer day.

Listening to the summer silence, the pings of the cooling engine, bird calls, hum of insects, light wind in my ears, I walk over to the tree, put my hands on it, lean close, and sniff deeply. Sure enough, vanilla. If you know why, the science of it, please don’t tell me. I like the incongruity of it, the kitchen baking odor, the smell of tropical vanilla beans, emanating from the bark of this large tree in western North America.

Then I walk around, taking in the essence of the place, grateful to the tree for sharing it with me. Looking around at the mountain vista, I think, “What a beautiful spot to live out your life, lucky tree.” A sense of the rootedness of the tree soaks into me. This tree is committed. It has survived winter cold, summer drought, for many years. It will stay when I leave, it will be here under the stars that night, it will be here when the weather turns hot, then cold. Tall and strong, it will survive the winds of winter storms. As beautiful as this place is, I will move on to other beautiful places. The tree will not. The animal world comes and goes; the tree generously shares it’s space and perspective with us for a few moments, but it remains rooted in place.

And why should it not be generous? When I move on, once again it will be left to the grandeur of the place, the silence of small sounds, the warmth of the sun pulling the vanilla esters from its bark. I don’t have the strength to be thus rooted, to survive in one place come what may. I am nervous, flighty, distractable, on the go–I am animal, not plant. But yet I pause, and my imagination slows and expands to take in the slow life of the tree. I would not trade; beautiful as this spot is on this warm summer day, I would not want to be rooted here–stuck–forever. But I am grateful to the tree for sharing its life, its space, its place, with me–its treeness entering and slowing and stabilizing my animal quickness.

I think these thoughts, or something like them, standing by the tree, leaning on it–yes, hugging it, feeling the sunwarmth of its bark. For a moment longer I linger, looking around at the forest, sky, clouds, mountain flowers; feeling the breeze on my face, hearing all the small sounds of the mountain silence. Then my destination pulls me, I take one last long sniff, thank the tree, and climb back in my car to drive on to the next beautiful place.

The tree, of course, stayed behind, unimpressed.

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