The tree is never absent, but always silent

Her bony fingers reaching for the dull winter sky

June 21st, 2009

Again, I went to the tree, after my absence. The tree, of course, is never absent but always silent. My bare feet, my skin, my toes, pressed into the stepping-stones and leaf litter for a secure footing in the dark. Feet can see in the dark, whereas eyes and shoes cannot. The ground is wet and cool, but not so cold as at other times, not freezing. And so, I visited the tree in the pre-dawn of the longest night.

Tears came to my eyes without thought, showing some tension, some pressure and tiredness – pressure squeezes us, and out pop tears. When the tears came so spontaneously, I thought, “Mother, hold me and soothe me,” feeling the tree and all the soil under me as Mother. Mother Earth, Mother Nature, here I am, give me rest, I have been too tired and busy to pay my respects and my tears show that suffering.

I looked around at all the blades of long grass, the flopping leaves of soft flowers and other herbage growing under the tree and felt how they cluster and huddle beneath her wide arms. She shelters them, eases the hardness of rain that falls, gives her blanket of leaves and blossoms for nourishment, holding the soil firm, and yet loose for them. She is Mother Tree, and this tree is extravagant with pink fluff in the bloom of spring, strong green cover in summer, brilliant show of fire and colour in autumn, and solid, still, grey in winter, with her old covering of lichen and bony fingers all exposed.

This mother is in silence. I feel less and less inclined to interactions and socialising, too much talking drains me and even disconnects me. Talk and words and relationships so easily cause inner confusion. The brightness of chatter externalises the mind and we can lose our centre of silence. The tree never loses this. The tree lives in perfect silence. The only sound she makes is when her leaves rustle in the whispering breezes or if she cries out in pain should a branch break, or if two branches or twigs cross each other and are pushed by the wind – then they speak in their woody, creaking tone. But without such outside agitation, the tree keeps silence.

She embodies Mother and silence.