Among the Trees

Among the Trees

So last weekend, Girlfriend and I stood beneath the glowing gold branches of a Japanese Maple tree, in a park in Northampton Massachusetts. A small gathering of friends and family were there, including the friend who formally proclaimed us, finally and legally married.

It meant more to me than I expected, since Girlfriend and I had already had our “big” commitment ceremony, six years to the day before. But I have been consistent in my mis-predictions about all these commitment rituals.

I was so wrong about how significant our first ceremony would turn out to be that I took to calling it “the biggest mistake of my life.” Which went over like a lead balloon with Girlfriend.

But how does anyone predict that sense of being born? I remember the shared terror as we stood outside the door together, recognizing that there’d be no turning back, not once we stepped into the church. And the ceremony itself—I thought it would feel like something we were doing, not so much like something being done to us. The attention, prayers and blessings of our friends and family…it changed us both, profoundly.

In my own defense, regarding that “mistake” term: it felt as if I’d headed toward Topeka, and ended up—much happier to be—in Santa Fe. It was not what I expected—it wasn’t even related to my expectations enough to be considered “better.” It was different, it was bigger, it was more than ever I’d imagined. The luckiest damn miscalculation I had ever made.

And so, I figured, once more for the State of Massachusetts—no big deal. I compared it once to registering to go vote, or getting a library card. Girlfriend still went through it with me—she is a kind, forgiving sort.

And I was wrong, again.

There is this poem, by Mary Oliver (who else?) that sort of reaches to it:

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

(from Thirst, Beacon Press, 2006)

We were in New England, mid-October. The leaves were unbelievable: almost neon in their brightness, and so extravagantly all around. Every year I’m startled at the way they keep their color after they have fallen, so that the ground takes up the red and orange and golden, too.

There are some things I’ve heard about the changing of the leaves, things I have clung to through the years, even though they contradict each other, even though I don’t know if they’re true.

I’ve heard, for example, that the leaves are really red and orange and yellow all year through—but that these true colors are hidden through the summertime, by the chlorophyll the tree requires to stay alive. In autumn, as the chlorophyll drains out, we see the tree in it’s true glory, it’s real self.

I’ve also heard that there’s no reason—biologic—for the coloring, and that it even requires an extra burst of energy to show. This suggests that something of a tree loves beauty, that it’s worth something to the tree for it to shine.

I’ve heard that birds use the bright colors in their migration, and I love the thought of navigating by this orange, that red, that shock of plum.

And I heard a scientist once proved that it was longer nights—not shorter days—that caused the trees to start to turn. Think about that study for a moment—on this planet, the length of days and nights are linked. What difference does it make, since long days and long nights could never accidentally occur? Someone built a structure big enough for trees, controlled the lighted—and waited for a year between experiments. There is something of devotion here—who would give so much to know this thing, that makes so little difference? It is as if we got the trees to share a secret of themselves.

And as for being married: it’s a little sweetly sorrowful, that being recognized somewhere that we don’t live makes such a difference. And yet, this feeling of completion settled in, even as we still stood there, together in the park. We are no longer “sort of married,” married “as far as we’re concerned,” married in some other way. It is a little sad to realize that all our promises of years ago, the prayers and blessings of our friends and family—all this, still left that gap.

And it is sad to realize that, legally, we’re married only in some places—and that there are those who cannot or who may not cross the borders necessary to be recognized as equal. That there are those who somehow feel diminished if we consider ourselves equal, those who feel they lost something, as we walked, glowing, through the leaves.

But we were filled with light and love, and we told stories and we laughed and cried a little bit. We were decked with flowers, and pronounced with paperwork, and toasted at a restaurant later on that night. We had a chance to stop, here, six or ten years into it (depends on how you count), and say to one another: we are sure and glad of it, and of each other. We had the gift of others, willing to stop by for the occasion, willing, in that afternoon, to stay awhile, to let us shine.