This is a guest post by Vanessa Swift. She lives in Crownsville, Maryland and among the trees of the forests nearby. She is a mother of an old soul, Charlie who is 11and shares the same feeling of peace in the forest. She is also the mother of a creative soul, Madeline age 7 who encourages her mom to explore art and creations inspired by her hikes. A Master Naturalist intern in Maryland, Vanessa finds nature her greatest spiritual teacher and she is happy.
As a child I loved Shel Silverstein’s books of poetry: Where the Sidewalk Ends, A Light in the Attic, Falling Up. I especially loved the black and white drawings, the odd creatures that danced and played on their pages and the way I felt more mature than my age, despite the childlike poems, as I was holding a hardcover book with sleeve. I’d read poem after poem for hours curled up under my loft bed or on the low backed black couch in our small one story 3-bedroom home in Columbia, MO. I never tired of the imagination the poems evoked and how child focused and friendly the books were, encouraging the reader to think big and different, to be silly and positive, embrace their individuality and always see room for growth in every experience.
It wasn’t until I was much older that I came across Shel Silverstein’s “The Giving Tree”. The book was thinner and had a green cover, a departure from his signature black and white books with think spines. The book was also a detour from childhood silliness, fantasies and adventures and instead led us through the phases of life and aging. He halted the dialogue for us just before death’s chapter. He could have made the tree’s last gift to the boy, a wooden coffin or a portion thereof, but instead stopped short and wrote that the tree offered the old man a stoop on which to rest his tired old bones. As a child who would experience the loss of my mom at 11, I am certainly a believer of letting children be children as long as they can. 11 was much too young to grow up so fast. A stoop on which one could sit went far enough.
When I read The Giving Tree in my 20s, I was moved and sad and saw the books message in the way all were speaking of. The tree loved the boy so much, she gave all she had to him without thoughts of herself. An unconditional love. However, in my 40s when I grabbed the book off the built-in bookshelf in my son’s room, it had a different message for me. Why didn’t the boy give something to the tree? Surely as he got older and wiser, he would understand the beauty in giving back in return, of acknowledging the gifts given and paying it forward or back to the giver out of gratitude and thanks. But he didn’t. As I reflected on the book further, I saw parallels to my life. The giving and giving to my children and my sick spouse. Until I had nothing left to give and lost who I was. How many mothers do the same? Was this all we were worth?
I did not read the book to my children again and placed it aside. When they were older we spoke of an alternative and mutually kind ending. I loved hearing the compassion in my children’s voices as they shared.
Shortly thereafter I became spellbound by “The Hidden Life of Trees” from Peter Wohlleben. It opened up my world in ways I will continue to explore throughout my life. Stories of trees communicating through roots, sending warning signals to other trees. How oak trees work together to decide when to drop their acorns, limiting them at times so wild animals will not come to rely on them as their main food source. How they can change the taste of their leaves to disgust predators and thereby preserve their livelihood. I began taking hikes in the woods to spend time among these wise creatures, to clear my head from all the pain in my marriage, to find quiet in the chaos, to find myself again and eventually to recreate myself through regrowth. My changes quite closely mirrored that of the trees in the forest. Sprouts coming from tree stumps were my inspiration. I am not dead! I still have life within in me… see! I imagined the stumps were collectively yelling these phrases into the woods as they stretched to the sunlight through the forests thick canopy. A symphony of woodland hope.
Two years ago, my hikes became more frequent as I had gained more time to myself in my separation from my husband, my moving out and splitting equal custody of our young children. I had time alone that I had not experienced in over 11 years. A mile or so in on one of my first hikes I met who I would call the Mother Tree. She stands just around a corner as you come to a clearing on your right and her roots stretch across a ravine. She is magnificent! She is tall and has several trunks coming from her base. Her roots seem to seek to loosely stitch the sides of the ravine back together. She holds onto the ground that used to support her fully and has pulled away in time through erosion. Great vast space sits between her roots and the valley below her now. They reach out broadly, gripping to the other side of the earth as tightly as mother grasps a child when they are about to wander into the street.
I was drawn to her strength at a time when I felt scared and desperately needed to know I would be ok. How I could relate to holding on so tightly!! I wished I had my own mother to speak to, one who had considered divorce from my dad, before her tragic and sudden death. How I wished I could speak to my grammy who divorced my granddad and then remarried him years later. In the forest in which I was working at the time, I had called up to them as I lay on a fallen tree, asking for their guidance and strength. They responded through the breeze that came down the hill to the trees winter branches above me. They were with me, behind me and within me.
I hike a local trail, Bacon Ridge, multiple times a week and always alone. I have come to understand the forest as my sanctuary and my place for meditation. A place to sort among a forest full of animals, trees, fungi and moss that all fall into peaceful harmony. They are an example of how I could arrange my life in harmony as well. I am fully present and seek answers without knowing my questions, always searching for a feeling, a sign. Every time I pass the mother tree, I am drawn to her. It is a force I could not deny for many months in the beginning. I ran to her and hugged her, closing my eyes and drawing strength from her. I often took a photo with her. Selfies with plants and mushrooms would become a tradition of mine. I always felt they were smiling as I was. Sometimes we cried together.
These return trips to her went on for many months and into 2 year. In the spring I would place my hand gently at the base of her largest trunk and try to feel the nutrients rushing to the top of her to feed her new growth and leaves. I always whispered “Hey Mama!” as I sunk into our embrace for 20 seconds or more. I’d read that at 20 seconds a hug begins to transform the huggers. You begin to relax. In time though, my hugs became shorter and conversations became longer. “You’re looking so good today. Look at those ladybugs! Gosh I love your bark. You are so strong and the most beautiful tree in this forest. I love you!” Sometimes I’d tell her about a struggle I was having. Ask to pull from her strength and sometimes I just came giving her love.
And then there was the day this summer when I just walked by and waved. “Hey Mama!” I whispered through my tears. “I’m ok now!” I knew she was needed for others and I had received more than enough. Her tree-ness was within me. I knew how to hang on and when to let go. I understood there were seasons of growth and seasons of rebuilding and seasons to pause and protect. I understood the interconnectedness of myself and all living creatures and I understood my immense power. And most deeply I felt the collective hug of all the trees in the forest as I walked on the paths between them. I was not limited to her alone.
I continue to hike this same forest and always tell the Mother Tree hello, give her a thank you and marvel at her beauty. I still take selfies with her when it feels right and simply wink when it doesn’t. I spend time hugging other trees now and I always lay down on a fallen one appreciating the incredible spot to journal and draw and observe.
How grateful I am to walk among the trees in this life. How grateful I am to have met and loved Mama. How grateful I am she loved me.
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