I wanted to be alone that day. Traveling across England with a group of 26 meant very little personal time or space, and most of the time that was okay. But that morning at Stourhead Gardens, I wanted my own thoughts and time and breath and pace.
We had started the morning at Stonehenge. Because we were a school group and we were going before it opened to the public, we got to go into the stone circle, touch the stones, walk among them, sit in the wet grass at their feet, listen to their silence. The silence felt heavy, full of questions and old, old answers. It was awe-inspiring, but it was imposing. I walked around the circle of stones, pressing my warm palm into each rough surface, greeting the monoliths, memorizing the feel of mystery.
Stourhead was such a relief, such a release after Stonehenge. It was light and beautiful and required absolutely no reflection. (It was where part of the most recent movie adaptation of ride and Prejudice was filmed.) I needed the mental space. I had found out the day before that my dad's surgery from six weeks ago hadn't caught all the cancer. It had spread, and now there was talk of radiation and drugs and more tests. It was not good news. It was like finding out there was cancer all over again, only this time I was on the other side of the world and didn't have a phone.
As I walked around the lake and admired the views, I took dozens of pictures. Everything was a postcard. I was fascinated by the tree with the flowers that hadn't opened to the sun yet, still in the shade. The rounded red petals looked like fuzzy ribbed cherries. The back part of the lake was so perfectly still it reflected the green hill and blue sky and blooming trees perfectly. There were huge rhododendren bushes with vibrant purples, pinks, reds, and oranges.
Then I saw the perfect photo op: high green bushes with purple flowers next to a tall tree, all striped with early morning light. I could sit at the foot of the tree and be perfectly framed by the bushes. I set the timer on my camera, perched it on some rocks across the path from the tree, and ran to sit on the protruding roots.
And something magical happened. As I leaned back into the tree, I found the curve of the trunk that fit my back, with the perfect bend in the roots making the ground comfortable and moss on the tree to cushion my head. The camera clicked, but I didn't move. I felt like I belonged there. The tree was made to fit me, or maybe I was made to fit it. It was almost like the universe had slid into place, had stopped spinning for a minute. I had found my equilibrium on this swiftly tilting planet, the place where I was always on solid ground. The place where I knew who I was, where I could always find myself again when the world threw me off balance. It was my Home Tree.
Maybe it's silly to make so much of a tree, but it was a distinct and special moment. I didn't have to have any answers, or even any questions. I didn't have to worry about not letting my distress show or calling my dad or coming up with an essay or writing about Stonehenge in my journal. It was my tree. And I was home. When I finally got up to leave, I touched the tree, pressed my palm into the mossy bark like I had at Stonehenge, into the rough surface. It felt the same.
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Very Lovely Kate. I knew exactly what you meant about getting away from the group and especially learning of your father's health problem too...you needed an escape and some relief. And, magically as you said, that tree cradled you like a mother. It eased your worries at the moment and isn't that a beautiful thing when nature can alleviate pain and stress? Wonderful...will this stretch into anything longer?
ReplyDeleteI like the idea of listening to silence. And I like the conclusion simply, "It felt the same." That a natural occurrence, a tree, felt just as powerful as this famous, mysterious, man-made creation.
ReplyDeleteThis is a very interesting parallel between the tree and the feeling of home, like moments in your life when you are so aware and so welcoming of your surroundings because of what you are thinking about subconsciously. You needed that tree to wrap its trunk around you, to hold you for an instant without talking to you, questioning you, asking you how you were. Sometimes, that is when we feel most at ease, and hence home. This could become a bigger piece for sure!
ReplyDeletethis is such a clear rendering of a very sweet and rare moment. i like how you weave in, only briefly, the stress of your father's illness.
ReplyDeleteunlike Emily, i was a little thrown by your last line. i thought the tree would feel *better* to you, somehow. is Emily's conclusion correct?
and, finally, i'm wondering - do you still have the photo?
I love the articulation of the intimacy with the non-human world, in this case the tree. I'd love you to linger longer there--what did it smell like to be that close to the tree?
ReplyDeleteI actually don't think you need the last line--just give us a stronger image of what that last touching was like.
Kate--I think this is lovely. I like how you incorporate back story and other seemingly unrelated details into this--it's a good exercise in drawing connections between scenes and events and ideas. I think this could be a rich, multi-layered piece if you expand it.
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