Most of us are familiar with Joyce Kilmer’s poem with its vivid imagery of trees suckling at the breast of mother earth and his self-description as a fool for trying to describe in words such a magnificent creation. I share his frustration.
I am always attracted to trees, to the patterns and textures shown by the bark, the limbs and sometimes even the leaves. Their visual complexity is alluring, especially in the spring when the gloriously complex structure of deciduous trees are tinged with a delicate yellow green halo of small leaves.
I’m often tempted to anthropomorphize: trees “hide” their structure with a covering of leaves or needles; some “show off” with stunning coats of color in the Fall; all “go with the flow” of wind and weather. But here is a lovely example of the opposite:
“When you go out into the woods and you look at trees, you see all these different trees. And some of them are bent and some of them are straight, and some of them are evergreen and some of them are whatever. And you look at the tree and you allow it. You see why it is the way it is. You sort of understand that it didn’t get enough light, and so it turned that way. And you don’t get all emotional about it. You just allow it. You appreciate the tree. The minute you get near humans, you lose all that. And you are constantly saying ‘You’re too this or I’m too this.’ That judging mind comes in. And so I practice turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are.”
I hope you enjoy the woods that I have created.