Fine Tree

I was walking along the foot worn path by the banks of the river with the golden hour sun warming my face when I saw the most enticing cedar tree. It's as if the tree asked, "Hey, would you sit a spell under my canopy?" And so I did.

But not right away.

You see, as I braced myself in order to sit all the way down on the ground (an action that was not required the first time a tree asked me to sit a spell) I realized that I was most likely not the only one to find this particular cedar tree enticing. The roots opened onto the ground like the twirl of a skirt with many pleats that no doubt offered protection and shelter to someone of the right size. So before I sat, I remembered my manners and gave the trunk a few knocks to be polite but more importantly avoid startling a critter or snake and in turn startling myself.

With no objections from any tree trunk residents I made myself comfortable between two elongated roots that formed a me sized space.

Do you like to sit in nature? Maybe a better question is, 'are you able to sit in nature?'. For me, sitting a spell is a natural craving but I'm not always very good at it. You might be thinking, "How can someone not be good at sitting? You've got a backside don't ya?" Well, yes, physically there are no barriers to me sitting. The journey to the seat is becoming more precarious with each birthday but once I'm down, it's all good. What I mean is, are you able to engage in the purpose of sitting a spell in nature: to be present. I always start off that way but rarely last more than a minute. During this particular spell it was anxiety that interrupted my sitting. It's not always anxiety that infringes on these attempts to really sit. Sometimes it's the urge to mindlessly scroll, shop for unnecessary comforts on Amazon, or possibly answer some emails. To be honest, I'm not always pleased when anxiety interrupts, but this time I was glad.

I knew why anxiety was so eager (or well, anxious) to interrupt my efforts to be present. My husband was out wading in the now shallow river bed, doing his part to remove driftwood and debris from our corner of the slough. Our dog, Wyatt, was with him, leaping more like a dear than a dog through the tall, marshy grasses that lined what used to be the river's edge. Anxiety wanted to be sure I was aware of each and every possible danger that might interrupt my perfect Autumn Sunday and befall my loved ones as I watched from my cedar seat. I'd call to my husband every so often when the worry would fill up my heart and spill out my throat, "Shelby! I think it's time you called it a day!" Or "Honey, how 'bout we take a break!" These requests fell on deaf ears, mostly because he actually couldn't hear me.

The longer I sat there, certain that one or both of my loved ones would be bitten by a snake, or trip and fall, the more I noticed the changes in Wyatt's behavior. To put it plainly, he was out there living his best life. He seemed like a wild animal! He ran through the grasses without abandon, bringing Shelby any sticks or debris he felt deserved his master's attention. He'd stalk through the grass, splash through the water and run with all his might until his tongue had to hang out the side of his mouth so he could breathe efficiently.

The longer I watched them together the more it felt wrong to urge them to stop. All the possibilities of danger were still there, but in that moment I realized the fun they were having was more important than the possibility of danger. I continued pulling at that thread until I had the sorrowful realization that I'd probably missed out on many rip roaring good times if I wasn't so focused on what could go wrong. How many wild and free moments did anxiety urge me to miss?

I sat under the enticing cedar with lighter shoulders and a more sunny outlook on the potentially dangerous play of my adolescent Spaniel pup. I focused on my epiphany and was resolved to hold onto this mental breakthrough. I was so pleased with my mindful realization that I failed to notice the chipmunk, with cheeks full of acorns, resting near me under the cedar tree. Surprisingly, he was not frightened, or if he was he did not scurry away. His lingering excited me! I’ve never been in the company of a woodland critter long enough to notice each other. There was a sense of privilege that flooded my heart. I couldn’t help but feel honored by his presence and grateful he had not scurried away. Maybe he could tell I was deep in important thought and did not want to disturb me. Or perhaps he was enticed by the cedar tree as well, to take a break from his Winter preparations. Whatever the reason he decided to sit a spell with me under the cedar tree, I was grateful.

Before eventually scurrying away, I am certain he looked up at me and said in his own way, “Fine tree, isn’t it?”