Maybe it’s the light. The call of the birds. But I wake up earlier this time of year. I suppose it’s counterintuitive, but there is an eagerness to rush into the morning, as if it were a warm and wandering tiger that I could grab by the tail, and convince it to slow down. To sit with me. To sit with us. To dangle slowly as the ripening peaches on the tree just outside our kitchen window. I know how their skin feels. Like they alone can feel the gentle touch of the sun. Almost weightless without winter’s worry. Trusting as if held in the grace of the branch. Never rushing the ripe. For this brief moment, I just am.
Maybe it’s the perk of the coffee. The pop of the toaster. But I catch myself in this moment of happiness. And the tiger runs off. And in catching myself, I guess it ends. But my summer legs tell me it doesn’t have to. My summer heart agrees, and I am back in the moment. I am the tiger. I am the peach. Perhaps even the light. How could summer ever end?
I’m not sure we could have less in common. Our lives went in completely different directions. Literally and figuratively. Our mothers being sisters, even the name that first connected us has been changed multiple times. So what is it that connects us, keeps us cousining? I can only imagine that it all comes down to the planting of trees.
I worked at a fevered pace to finish the painting of my grandfather, so that my mother could gift it to my brother on the last of his birthdays that she would be here to celebrate. I sent her daily updates. And we were connected by the tears of tenderness that flowed between us. As his image came to life between the steady and the growth, between the rock and the trees, (where all life hovers in the grassy field) we were one.
I finished in time. I suppose everything does.
The first time my cousin saw the picture he said, “I remember the planting of those trees.” Of course, that must be it. Even though we grew so very far apart, we were planted. Together. We began with the steady of our grandfather, and the growth that we were all allowed. And that means something. Still. Ever.
I remember my cousins birthday each year. Being the first of April, it’s not that hard. And when I do, I find myself wandering the grassy field in between, and I am home, ever beginning.
We used to see it all the time, my favorite tree, when we went to visit Dominique’s mother. I haven’t seen it since she passed. I suppose it would be a long way to drive just to see a tree. But I think of it occasionally. It had struggled with the drought of recent years. I painted it when it was full, hoping somehow it would be the hydration needed to keep it alive. Maybe I’m doing the same with all of my painting. Trying to keep the connections. Families branch out. Each limb gets thinner. That’s the nature of it, I suppose. But we can remain strong. Some say it takes work, but mostly I think it just takes care. You just have to keep caring. Even when it feels like love’s rain has abandoned us, we keep caring. Is that foolish? Probably. But for me that’s not disparaging. When I wrote of my grandmother and grandfather falling in love — He said, “I’m such a stubborn man, Elsie. I’m stubborn as a mule.”She said, “I love you just the same.”He said, “Then I hear you love a fool.”And he fell for her as only fools can,and the story of Rueben and Elsie began. No one grew things like my grandfather. This mule. This farmer. I want to be this foolish. So I keep believing. I keep painting. I keep watering the branches. I don’t have to drive by to know it’s there. Love ever remains. Ever green. Ever growing.
Our peach tree, Officer Bob, (I named him Officer Bob because I always imagined him in an old time movie, cigar tucked in the side of his mouth, looking at something beautiful and saying, “It’s a peach, see….”) — anyway, yesterday Office Bob broke a major limb. We have been worried about him all spring — carrying more fruit that ever before. Each branch loaded beyond capacity. Dropping unripe fruit daily to get some relief. (When I mowed the lawn it smelled like jam.) But yesterday I guess it all became too much. One of his branches, and it was a thick one, snapped beneath the weight.
The things we carry.
It’s too self-important to imagine that this was a lesson just for me. But, none the less, it is definitely something I need to keep learning.
By nature, I suppose, I have always been one to add the weight of worry. I have improved, but I can certainly still overload my branches. I don’t think we’re built to carry. Even the good things can become too much. Maybe we’re meant to feel and release. Letting go of the bad things. And letting loose all the good – sending it out for all the world to see.
A bird rests on one of his limbs this morning. So light. Singing a song of hope. Maybe we can do the same for each other. Be there for each other. No weight added. Only song.
Worry dropped, love released, the morning winks and says, “It’s going to be a peach, see!”
There is an old Native American proverb that states, “No tree has branches so foolish as to fight amongst themselves.”
I was talking with my mom yesterday. She had just gone for a treatment in the hospital. She gets one every four weeks. She told the nurses about her new dress from Sundance. Showed them pictures. They shared laughs and compliments. “It’s my family,” she told me. Now I don’t take offense to this – I know I am my mother’s family – always will be, but I am forever joyed when she can find peace and laughter and support – and isn’t that what family is? – or should be.
I have always found my branches in the art communities. We have often referred to ourselves as the “land of misfit toys” – but a family just the same. Similar interests, goals, longings, aspirations — support, no judgements.
Outside of a gallery in Minnetonka, Minnesota, I used to watch a weeping willow tree. How it moved. As a whole unit. Such grace. At first sight, I was a little sad, our family had never moved like that. Oh, some branches coupled together from time to time, which was nice, but never like this. Never the whole, gathering strength in the wind. Never the whole, bracing against the storm. But then it occurred to me. I had found that flow in another place. Another family. And I was complete.
Family doesn’t need to be blood. How limiting is that? Family is family. You just have to find it. And when you do, you know it. And oh, how comforting. How beautiful. How fresh and green. What a flow. What a dance!
Yesterday, my husband and I (my newest family) visited a beautiful horse park. It was gorgeous. Barns of champion racers. Stunning animals. A strong, elegant, willow tree greeted us at the gate. Gathered in this new place, this place I would not stay, I was home. In this ever changing world, this not so ever green world, joyfully, I join in the family dance.
We have become polarized in so many ways the past few years. “But they didn’t vote right.” “They aren’t wearing a mask.” “They’re protesting the wrong way.” “Who do they think they are?” “They can’t be serious!” “It’s just so obvious!!!” Each side certain of their beliefs. And not just certain, planted, stuck.
I started practicing yoga. There is a pose called tree pose. You have to balance on one foot, bringing your other heel half way up that balanced leg. When you feel steady, you can bring your hands to your heart, and eventually make branches by reaching your hands above your head. Tree Pose improves your sense of balance and coordination. Regular practice will improve your focus and your ability to concentrate in all areas of your life, particularly during those times when you might normally feel “off-balance.” This pose has a positive impact on the grace and ease with which you approach all circumstances, even outside of your yoga class.
The yoga instructor I listen to online tells me something every day (and I need to hear it every day). In the middle of the pose, when you might start to wobble, she says, “Don’t dig your toes in the ground, it won’t make it any easier.”
Don’t dig your toes in. I need to hear that. To live that. People will have different opinions. Different likes. Different tastes. And the human reaction is often to fight back immediately, as if the angered certainty will change someone’s mind. It doesn’t.
Instead, I want to focus on my own quiet certainty – my own balance. From my toes to my hands, my hands that gather first at my heart, as they should, then over my head. That quiet balance that works for me. That gives me strength. That gives me peace.
I wiggle my toes, because even in all the uncertainty, life is still fun, life is still filled with grace. Find your balance. Enjoy your day!
