Tree meditation
For a class, we were encouraged to do a "tree meditation" this week. That means finding a tree that draws your attention and is preferably much older than you, and asking it a question in whatever way seems appropriate. Trees know a lot, after all-- they spend a lot of time standing in one place just watching the world.
Selecting the tree was easy. There is an amazing walnut tree along the Los Gatos Creek trail near my house. It is at the edge of the trail, just before it slopes down about 100 feet to the creek. Years of erosion have chipped away at the edge of the slope, so that the tree is basically hanging with only half its roots solidly in the ground. Indeed, the root ball is partly holding up the portion of the slope around the tree.
Furthermore, there was a fire along this hillside over the summer, and one side of the walnut tree got singed. The blackened leaves still cling to the branches like limp hands. Approaching the tree closer, one sees that parts of the bark have been stripped away, perhaps by humans or some disease. Near the base of the tree, an inexplicable pile of mixed foodstarch is maintained. I have seen noodles, rice, and bread crusts there, and just as one batch decays into organic mush, more seems to be added. The purpose is unknown.
The tree bears it all stolidly, even majestically. There are fresh green shoots emerging from the burned branches, as it patiently starts over on that portion of its body. The branches are perfectly arranged to be part of a squirrel superhighway that runs from the trees down near the creek up to the redwoods on the streetside of the trail. Ants also use the branches as roadways.
At this time, the tree is part green and part yellow as the season shifts toward mid-autumn (along with the remaining blackened sections, of course). It looks a bit dry, but certainly not discouraged. It has seen many autumns and winters, not to mention every kind of human and animal traipsing by along the trail. I get the feeling that nothing could surprise it.
As I walked the half-mile from my house to the tree, I thought about what to ask. I wanted to ask something appropriate for this tree, something it would know about. After all, you wouldn’t ask the Dalai Lama for sex advice. I decided to ask the tree how to age gracefully — how to take all the pain and challenges that life throws at us and bear them nobly, all the while remaining useful and even offering comfort to all beings who pass by. If anyone knows about this, the battered-but-stately walnut tree does.
As I approached, I took out my little cell phone camera to snap a few pictures of the tree. They wouldn’t be high quality, but this is the only digital camera I have, and I wanted to share what the tree looks like. To my surprise, a young man and woman were already at the tree, their bike and skateboard laid down by the side of the trail. The woman was snapping pictures also, so I commented lightly that it must a good day to take pictures. Then an older man rode by on a mountain bike, totally decked out in high-tech biking gear, from the slinky shorts to the swoopy curved shades. He screeched to a stop when he saw the young woman’s camera.
“Is that a film camera?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a photographer? What type of camera is that?”
It turned out the woman was taking a photography class at West Valley College, and this was the only camera she had. It was a reasonably good one, but the older man was buzzing with excitement about making her an offer.
He had two Olympus 8008 film cameras at home that he and his son had bought several years ago, but then they switched to digital and don’t use them anymore. He wanted to give these cameras to the young photographer and her boyfriend. “They’re great cameras! But I just don’t use them. You can’t even sell them for much, but I know you’ll get a lot out of them. Please! Come by my house and get them! Do you have a pen so I can write down my address?”
In my hand were my class journal and a pen. Silently, I stepped forward and offered the pen and a torn-out page. With barely a nod, he took them and snapped his attention back to the couple. As he wrote, he dispensed other advice: They should practice reading, writing, and spelling every day in order to become effective communicators. They should exercise — he rides his bike 30 miles a day. They should study anything they are interested in and never doubt themselves.
“I finished at the bottom of my high school class, but now I have two Master’s degrees — in mathematics and physics. My son got interested in computers and ended up making animations for Pixar. You can do anything! Keep at it every day. Oh—and if you come by my house, be sure to come around the back because I spend a lot of time working in the garage and I might not hear you.”
The young man up to now had been nodding and smiling somewhat carefully, but his grin began to widen. “This sounds like a great deal, sir. Thank you for the cameras and everything else!”
The energetic old man popped his helmet back on and sped away. The young couple smiled and began to head in the other direction. We exchanged eye contact and smiles, agreeing that you never know who you might run into!
I had barely participated in this exchange, except to supply the paper and pen. It was almost like I was invisible; the older man never spoke to me or really looked in my direction. I realized also that I had subconsciously been waiting for them all to leave. I was here to do my Tree Meditation, and there was this unexpected crowd of people!
Then it hit me. This was the answer to my question for the tree. Aging gracefully is all about just keeping on doing things — learning math, working in the garage, getting into digital photography. And above all, passing along wisdom and skills (and occasionally an old camera) to young people who are just starting on the voyage. It had played out right in front of me in this odd but inspiring encounter.
I spent a while in silence with the tree after that, just holding onto its bark, first with one hand and then with both so the energy could flow around a complete circuit through my chest. My hands got very hot.
I hope I can become like the tree, existing simply to give. I didn’t think of this at the time, but writing these words now, I am reminded of a children’s book called The Giving Tree. It’s about a tree that helps and supports a boy from his childhood through his old age, first as a place to play and eat apples, later as a romantic spot to woo his first love, and finally as a stump on which the old man can rest.
Selecting the tree was easy. There is an amazing walnut tree along the Los Gatos Creek trail near my house. It is at the edge of the trail, just before it slopes down about 100 feet to the creek. Years of erosion have chipped away at the edge of the slope, so that the tree is basically hanging with only half its roots solidly in the ground. Indeed, the root ball is partly holding up the portion of the slope around the tree.
Furthermore, there was a fire along this hillside over the summer, and one side of the walnut tree got singed. The blackened leaves still cling to the branches like limp hands. Approaching the tree closer, one sees that parts of the bark have been stripped away, perhaps by humans or some disease. Near the base of the tree, an inexplicable pile of mixed foodstarch is maintained. I have seen noodles, rice, and bread crusts there, and just as one batch decays into organic mush, more seems to be added. The purpose is unknown.
The tree bears it all stolidly, even majestically. There are fresh green shoots emerging from the burned branches, as it patiently starts over on that portion of its body. The branches are perfectly arranged to be part of a squirrel superhighway that runs from the trees down near the creek up to the redwoods on the streetside of the trail. Ants also use the branches as roadways.
At this time, the tree is part green and part yellow as the season shifts toward mid-autumn (along with the remaining blackened sections, of course). It looks a bit dry, but certainly not discouraged. It has seen many autumns and winters, not to mention every kind of human and animal traipsing by along the trail. I get the feeling that nothing could surprise it.
As I walked the half-mile from my house to the tree, I thought about what to ask. I wanted to ask something appropriate for this tree, something it would know about. After all, you wouldn’t ask the Dalai Lama for sex advice. I decided to ask the tree how to age gracefully — how to take all the pain and challenges that life throws at us and bear them nobly, all the while remaining useful and even offering comfort to all beings who pass by. If anyone knows about this, the battered-but-stately walnut tree does.
As I approached, I took out my little cell phone camera to snap a few pictures of the tree. They wouldn’t be high quality, but this is the only digital camera I have, and I wanted to share what the tree looks like. To my surprise, a young man and woman were already at the tree, their bike and skateboard laid down by the side of the trail. The woman was snapping pictures also, so I commented lightly that it must a good day to take pictures. Then an older man rode by on a mountain bike, totally decked out in high-tech biking gear, from the slinky shorts to the swoopy curved shades. He screeched to a stop when he saw the young woman’s camera.
“Is that a film camera?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a photographer? What type of camera is that?”
It turned out the woman was taking a photography class at West Valley College, and this was the only camera she had. It was a reasonably good one, but the older man was buzzing with excitement about making her an offer.
He had two Olympus 8008 film cameras at home that he and his son had bought several years ago, but then they switched to digital and don’t use them anymore. He wanted to give these cameras to the young photographer and her boyfriend. “They’re great cameras! But I just don’t use them. You can’t even sell them for much, but I know you’ll get a lot out of them. Please! Come by my house and get them! Do you have a pen so I can write down my address?”
In my hand were my class journal and a pen. Silently, I stepped forward and offered the pen and a torn-out page. With barely a nod, he took them and snapped his attention back to the couple. As he wrote, he dispensed other advice: They should practice reading, writing, and spelling every day in order to become effective communicators. They should exercise — he rides his bike 30 miles a day. They should study anything they are interested in and never doubt themselves.
“I finished at the bottom of my high school class, but now I have two Master’s degrees — in mathematics and physics. My son got interested in computers and ended up making animations for Pixar. You can do anything! Keep at it every day. Oh—and if you come by my house, be sure to come around the back because I spend a lot of time working in the garage and I might not hear you.”
The young man up to now had been nodding and smiling somewhat carefully, but his grin began to widen. “This sounds like a great deal, sir. Thank you for the cameras and everything else!”
The energetic old man popped his helmet back on and sped away. The young couple smiled and began to head in the other direction. We exchanged eye contact and smiles, agreeing that you never know who you might run into!
I had barely participated in this exchange, except to supply the paper and pen. It was almost like I was invisible; the older man never spoke to me or really looked in my direction. I realized also that I had subconsciously been waiting for them all to leave. I was here to do my Tree Meditation, and there was this unexpected crowd of people!
Then it hit me. This was the answer to my question for the tree. Aging gracefully is all about just keeping on doing things — learning math, working in the garage, getting into digital photography. And above all, passing along wisdom and skills (and occasionally an old camera) to young people who are just starting on the voyage. It had played out right in front of me in this odd but inspiring encounter.
I spent a while in silence with the tree after that, just holding onto its bark, first with one hand and then with both so the energy could flow around a complete circuit through my chest. My hands got very hot.
I hope I can become like the tree, existing simply to give. I didn’t think of this at the time, but writing these words now, I am reminded of a children’s book called The Giving Tree. It’s about a tree that helps and supports a boy from his childhood through his old age, first as a place to play and eat apples, later as a romantic spot to woo his first love, and finally as a stump on which the old man can rest.
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