The Golden Seed Grove Of Lemuria
The Spirit of Trees
Let me start out by saying I love trees. I love the way their branches seem to hold up the sky with nimble fingers. How they pull the colors of a thousand sunsets into their leaves come fall; love the way they feel, rough or smooth. Most of all, I love to hear them whisper amongst themselves when the spirit of wind moves them. They sway gracefully, bending, reaching to touch each other and sometimes, if we're luck, to touch us.
I've found through the years that trees have different voices, and all you have to do to hear the difference is listen. Pine trees for instance, really do whisper when the winds blow. It's a soft comforting sound that brushes your skin and makes you believe if you could just listen a little harder, you'd hear a thousand secrets past and present. Trees with larger leaves, like oaks, are more vocal, getting louder as the wind blows harder. They have stories to tell, but they want you to come play first; want you to run around under theirs branches and through their fallen leaves. Once you've done that, they're more than happy to share their secrets.
There are many past and present, who believe trees are old spirits, old souls, here to comfort us. I can believe that. I have always felt safest amongst forests thick and thin. My favorite place in the world is a place up in the mountains where I've been going since I was a child, my parents since long before then. Having spent so much time there, we've found places that few humans wander. Have taken these places and made them our own. My favorite time of year to wander here is in winter, when the trees are barren and quietly sleeping. I wander through the almost silent woods gently so as not to disturb - take only memories, leave only footprints, as the old saying goes. Thing is, amongst all those massive old trees, I feel safe. As if nothing in the world could hurt me there. I can't explain it really, only that there's something magical, maybe even mystical, about that place. And it's a place where I feel quiet, a rarity for me as anyone who knows me will tell you.
There are other trees I have loved and held close. The mimosa that stood in the front yard of my childhood home that wore exotic fern-like fronds as leaves and held feather-light puffs of flower in shades of pink. That tree happily wore the handprints of all my friends and me as we used it for home base during games of tag. Its branches held fast when I climbed as high as I could to see my mom's car pull around the corner as she came home from work. Then there are the trees at my grandparent's house, one of which held a favorite rope swing, all under which a favorite uncle tossed me (as a very small child) in the air and caught me in big, warm hands. The trees that I scaled, getting all scratched up in the process, to catch cicadas - only to release them as soon as I reached the ground. The tree that held the tree house my father built, from which I could lay and watch the night sky filled with stars and try to make out the face of the man in the moon. The trees I sit under now to watch the ducks pass quietly.
Trees are a huge part of my past and my present. I sit under a tree and within moments feel centered and quiet; am able to let go of all the noisy hectic mayhem that is my everyday life. A breeze blows across my skin and runs its fingers through the leaves over my head and I listen. Try it sometime. You never know what you might hear.
Lisa Mahon 2002