Not all trees are for leaning against

What did you hope I would carry for you, beloved?

I noticed the swords only the second before I was about to place my hand on the trunk to ask for permission to lean against it. I laughed to myself and then placed my palm on its sturdier, older and swordless mother tree next to it. I asked my question. She said, “Lay on the ground beneath my branches.” I held my palm there, hoping she would change her answer. “Lay on the ground beneath my branches.” I removed my palm and walked around to the other side of the tree. I asked again. “Lay on the ground beneath my branches.”

“But the birds will shit on me if I lay there.”

“Lay on the ground beneath my branches.”

I surrender, remove my hand and approach the ground. I look back at the tree, childlike, hoping she will change her mind; instead, I notice she’s leaning away from human dwellings. Immediately around her trunk is evidence of smaller universes, minute worlds she is already giving herself to. Even if she said yes, there is nowhere for me to sit—unless I crush something else to do it.

I lay on the ground beneath her branches. The ground gives as I sink into it, as if holding my weight so gently is part of its design. An Eames chair, a memory foam mattress. That spot in the sofa I have to wriggle into that is so specifically mine that no other body could possibly find it. Custom-made comfort. I let myself be held. My arms are folded behind my head for support; my left leg is at 90 degrees, with my right ankle resting on my left knee.

“Lay like a starfish.”

I open my eyes and say, “No.”

“Look around you.”

I look. To my right, the mother tree’s branches, which arch towards the sky before cascading towards the ground, are entangled with those of a bush, whose leaves and branches are entangled with another; and altogether, they have created a shelter. For what I can’t be sure, but I imagine there are smaller, tender animals laying there, too, eating berries and bugs and nuzzling each other. In front of me, across the creek, a festival of trees burning green and still, except for the occasional rustle of leaves and the frequent chirps of birds that announce that life is buoyed here. Above, diaphanous clouds colour the sky a baby blue and wisps of pink dance in from the west. And to the left, the quiet cabin I can’t quite call home, the smouldering fire pit and the half-drunk glass of wine I left on the porch. I see.

“You are safe to relax into this moment.”

I lay like a starfish.

I giggle. The grass is soft, not prickly. The ground is an open palm cupping my thighs. I can’t believe how made for me the ground is. I forget about the nagging pain in my left shoulder and the louder pain in my left knee.

I gaze up at her branches. I am intrigued by her canopy. These branches spiral in every direction, wayward, as if frizzy hair, and at the end of these thin branches, her berries. So many berries, dangling, waiting to be eaten by those she made them for. I’m amazed. She doesn’t keep her berries close to her trunk. I think about what it means to offer fruits with such intentional abandon, how unconcerned she is with offering her gifts. I think about how I’ve been wounded by ruinous appetites. Trees and leaves often wear their wounds on the outside; berries are often bruised. I receive this invitation to blossom, to branch, to unfold.

I begin to think about how her canopy would not shield me from rain. I look to my left and notice that the younger trunk, the one breasted with swords, has a much thicker canopy, much lower to the ground, as if the mother tree had heard too many of us for too long think this same thought and so sprouted up this younger trunk to get us to be quiet about it. I hear the mother tree very clearly: “Exactly. Keep looking.”

I want to get up and grab my phone. I want to document this moment, capture this feeling in photos I will invariably edit before sharing. I can’t move. The tender blades holding my thighs are now verdant chains. I am not imprisoned, only kept in place. The grass knows artists and writers don’t interrupt their experiences, knows that I need grounding to help me remember the point of it all: “All you have to do is lay here and listen, look, feel. This is for you.” Nothing I need is being obscured from me. I am surrounded, protected and welcomed by trees. So many trees. The ivy climbs up those trunks across the creek. Stinging nettles guard the bases of others. I understand. Not all trees are for leaning against. The mother tree asks, “What did you hope I would carry for you, beloved?“

I sit up. I sigh with relief. I cross my legs and hold my feet. They are so clean. Not a single blade of grass, not even a grain of earth is visible. This ground is made for walking. I thank my feet. I thank my feet for ordering my steps away from danger. I remember the time I came to consciousness roaming the streets of South London, having lost my bag, my phone and myself but not my feet. I thank them for their faithfulness to my safety. I thank them for my runner’s grace, for remembering all the steps to “Single Ladies” and for holding me steady when I’ve wanted to collapse into a heap of tears.

I gently drag my hands from my feet, caressing my legs and place my palms on my right knee, but it tells me it doesn’t need me. I move to my left knee. Yes, this is where it hurts. I cup my palms around it, and I apologise for not hearing its pain as a cry for rest, to slow down. I’m so sorry for treating your pain as a nuisance, for not believing you when you said you were hurting. I massage and I cry. You are carrying a lot, and I will invest in your healing. I keep my right palm on my knee and place my left on the ground. I thank the tree and the earth surrounding us for providing this soft place for us to speak. With my hand to the earth, I call in my ancestors. Please help us heal together. Please help me hear my body’s pain and not admonish it. Please help me move towards remedies.

I open my eyes and I take the biggest gulp of air I can, and then I exhale slowly. I thank the trees for this air. I do it again and again and again, and each time I thank the trees for this air. It’s so clean, so delicious, so perfect for me. I look to my right and notice a red twig. I pick it up. It’s shaped like a wishbone, and I immediately know I should place it on my left knee, so I do. It fits perfectly, as if that red twig and this left knee had each been made for the other. I laugh to myself. Of course they were. I am of this earth. I belong to this place. Of course we match.

I stand. I turn towards the tree and place my palm on her trunk. She is silent. I am silent. We are silent. I walk back towards the cabin and begin the work of clearing up the mess I made.