Before I Had Words
The sound of jumprope hitting against the asphalt along with children’s laughter. The students playing soccer, others seeing how high they could swing on the swing set. There she was, in the middle of it all: the old playground tree with her deeply furrowed bark, almost as if she were watching over us all. I found myself under this tree every day during recess in kindergarten. Not a day went by that I didn’t sit with her…
Teachers were concerned that I struggled socially; I was very quiet and had a rich internal world as a small child. I rarely spoke in my kindergarten class. Looking back, I understand I struggled with anxiety and even moments that some might interpret as selective mutism. My classmates and the couple of friends I did have were also confused. Every day someone would ask why I always sat by myself. “I’m sitting with the tree,” I would respond. The look of confusion became predictable, and I would then proceed to show my peers all the crayon-colored markings over the weather-worn bark and where older students had etched and carved their names into the trunk. I would put my hand over it and share how it hurt and how it made me sad. Perhaps it was watching too much FernGully as a child, but most adults and children thought I was odd, and this was seen as strange behavior.
As my early years went on, I continued to have relationships with trees. In the neighborhood yard next door, there was a smaller tree that was perfect for little me to climb. On the weekends, my favorite thing was to make mud pies while singing to the tree and then climbing up on it to get a higher-up view of the neighborhood. Our neighbor found it endearing and very childlike.
Another year, we got a small, live Christmas tree—we never usually got live trees, so this felt special. After the holidays, my mother had it planted in the backyard. She is still at my family’s home, much bigger now, reaching into the open sky. She is as beautiful as she was that first Christmas.
When the World Moved Indoors
Time passed on; years continued to accumulate. Life moved more indoors, and free time became less and less. Stressful adolescence, friendship and family ruptures, academic pressures, and growing into young adulthood came quickly. There wasn’t a specific day I decided to stop climbing trees or sitting beneath them, but more of a gradual turning away. As I spent more of my life as a student and then as a worker, I became more accustomed to functioning while disconnected. Disconnected not only from my body with all-nighters and working past exhaustion, but also from nature. The part of me that found quiet wisdom almost naturally was now oriented toward achievement, productivity, and staying “on top of things.” Capitalism, high-achieving environments, the familiar confusion I often encountered early on, and the absence of spaces that tended to my nervous system pulled me farther away from my tree relatives.
Finding My Way Back
Years later, well into adulthood, after my own powerful experiences with reconnecting to nature, listening more closely to plant wisdom, and support from my mentors and the Land, I have found myself drawn back again to the trees. A new understanding that I care for nature and nature cares for me, and how deep that relationship truly is. I don’t just breathe the oxygen or consume food from the Earth. I am also supported and tended to in a way words cannot capture.
I now visit a special tree in my neighborhood each day. She is grand, motherly, and steady, almost in a protective way. Sometimes I just stand and admire her grandness; sometimes I share my worries with her; sometimes I ask questions knowing I’ll have to really listen for the answer; other times I drop off a small offering as a gesture of gratitude. It is a relationship unlike any other, and it feels nice to be held without needing to be anything else.
I still think about my best friend from kindergarten frequently. I can’t recall what kind of tree she was. Even now, as I pass my old elementary school, there is no trace of her left after so many years. But I do remember her lesson. Perhaps my younger self knew something my adult self had to return to.