The Wisdom of Grandmother Tree

When you are a writer and all your inspiration, training and years of putting words on paper are needed to create that next masterpiece, being able to “define” what that creative piece is about is the only place to start. As such, this wordsmith’ed journey begins with defining the word “passion.” Because to answer the question, what are you passionate about? … I need, no, I must start with how I define passion.

Over two decades ago, I found myself introduced this guy called “The Crocodile Hunter.” At first, when my brother mentioned “you have to watch this guy on television,” I thought with discerning taste … not my cup of tea. Eventually, somehow, I found myself finding this guy on tv and watching him. And yes, I found the guy mesmerizing. But it was not because of his use of “Crickey” or the insane antics he performed every show or even his crazy hair and wide-eyed expressions. What I found myself attracted to was what I came to understand as his passion. I looked past what the program was showing the audience and deeper into the man that many thought crazy, some thought insane, others funny and some inspiring, to a soul who shared passion on the screen. And the moment this realization hit me was when he was describing one of his favourite crocs and comparing her bottom to his wife’s. I remember even gaffing aloud and thinking who in their right mind sees a woman’s bottom reflected in a dinosaur predator? More than that, it was the lightning bolt that struck my soul and creative brain in recognition of how I want to define passion in my own soul. You see, what Steve Irwin taught me with his comparison of human vs. crocodile bottoms was that his passion was a representation of his true unconditional love for a living creature, where if truth be told and numbers calculated would most likely result in less than 5% of the world’s population thinking these majestic animals were worth liking at all.

It was in this ah-ha moment when I came up with the notion that if every person on the planet took time to passionately care for, love and fight for one “other” living thing then how much greater the world would be. This, of course, is omitting the fact that every living thing on and in Mother Earth is in itself of great value. Bottom line for me became the notion that the responsibility for each and every living thing resided with the very beings who threaten them … humankind. And from this emotional, psychological and spiritual journey of awareness, I concluded I have a responsibility in my passion “as I define it” to be responsible for my targeted living thing. And what is my thing? Well, my thing is trees.

To be clear. I have loved trees for as long as I have known what trees are. I did not know I had a defined passion for trees until I was well grown, even though I could have easily said at any point in time “I love trees.” But to be passionate about trees, like Steve was about crocs, I never thought of it that way. I remember the big maples that were in our neighbours’ yards outside my bedroom window in my childhood home. I remember the sounds of their leaves rustling or the rain hitting them in the months when my window could be open. I also remember snow piling on their branches and making pieces of art against the northern sky in the winter months. And when I return, almost 5 decades later, I still want to lie with the window open, on my old bed and see the trees I knew as a child. For they brought me comfort in a tumultuous childhood … yes, they brought me peace.

As a young mother, I lived in the country and in the corner of our lot we had a high-rise maple that had probably seen many a horse and buggy come clomping by, surrounded by fields of long grasses, bushes and predator/prey animals vying for survival. And when the railway tracks where laid down by the marsh, the tree probably was disturbed by the sounds of pounding steel on steel and the shouts of men who sweat in the humid summer heat as they fought off mosquitos with voracious appetites. These were the sounds of modernization to a tree that once only knew the sound of the wind on its rippling leaves and the chirps and peeps of small birds and furry things that sat and ran through its body. A body thick with rings so many that counting meant keeping your wits about you, and skin so leathered and rich in colours of Mother Earth that to honour her meant knowing in her age was wisdom. Wisdom far beyond what a wise man or woman could know in one or two life times. Because this tree, she is majestic. Like crocs, she too is a dinosaur of sorts. “Someone” to be feared, respected and honoured. Someone to be passionate about.

Yes, I personify trees. Why? Well, when you think about it, they are at the core of our life’s survival. According to National Geographic, “rainforests are responsible for roughly one-third (28%) of the Earth’s oxygen.”

Add to this tidbit of knowledge, “the amount of oxygen produced by an acre of trees per year equals the amount consumed by 18 people annually.”

And all these facts do not include the food, medicine, protection to the environment, habitat for all living things, and so on and so on. When you think about it … trees are people, because they provide the necessary ingredients to make … well, people. Without trees and out of your High School cohort of 1000, 180 of those people will suffocate to death. Without trees, another half of those will starve or die of malnutrition. Without trees, another half will suffer from body maladies because there will be no medicines. Without trees … humankind will cease to exist.

Yes, I personify trees. Because like the Lorax, I say, “I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees for the trees have no tongues.”

And if the trees had tongues, they would say things that amaze and dazzle us. And they do … that is if you listen.

While closest to the sun, her leaves tympanic percussion rattles

And violins a many, pulled strings across her tempered brow

And arms of flutes danced across the warm southern wind

Twittles, whittles, skips, repeats

She swayed with the sound of the child’s playful giggles

Raising high across the rooftops afar and alight

A grandchild of many generations, for all she knew

Creak, swing, up high, so high, touch the sky

And the song of her voice played melodically

With tunes the robins had lined up

For this, her life, as she always knew it

Swing, twittles, touch the sky, repeat

I am in my sixth decade now, and who said old age meant you were old was lying, because it is only now that I am fully embraced in my passion for trees. And when I think about it, Steve must have been wise for his years, because he figured out this passion for living things when he was far too young to have the wisdom time brings. And I thank Steve for that. Because I can’t imagine wasting so many years without that ah-ha moment when I outed myself as a tree lover and with passion to boot. And in my mature years, I have returned to my talents for creativity, not words – that passion has always been alive – but for art and how I have been able to honour trees though my ability to mould this tree passion in clay and other mixed media foundations.

Almost a decade ago, I took part in a grief program which specifically used clay to work with one’s bereavement to heal the pain of loss. This program was part of Hospice, and as a volunteer I thought it would help me with my own grief. It was as if Steve took my hand and walked me in the doors of the room to wisdom, passion, unconditional love and all my tomorrows. I found 10 other women and men who too were Hospice volunteers and together we grew through taking the gift Mother Earth had given us, her own flesh and blood, the earth, clay and feelings and we discovered who we were in ways that today still amaze me. In this journey, I found Grandmother Tree … a great majestic woman who I can say, like Steve, shook me at my core and opened my heart and soul to the passions and wisdom that trees have in store for me to learn from.

See Grandmother Tree was an actual tree that I used to pass each day when I drove my kids to school in the country or went to town on errands. She wasn’t majestic by beauty standards. She was worn. She was tired. She was a pine. She had hair loss and bone deformities. BUT … every day she greeted me. And no matter what she looked like or how she felt on that day, she always smiled … as if to say, you are doing good young mother. And I rejoiced each day she greeted me, looking forward to the next morning and afternoon on my drive. Until, and yes, it happened … someone with little wisdom and much folly decided she was no longer worthy of her stance. Someone cut her down. Not for wood for their fires, as they left her there to rot. Not for a place to build a home, because nothing ever replaced her. Not because she might fall. For although she was old, she still was strong and even if she fell, she would hurt no one. They killed her because they thought they had the right to take her life, and so they did.

I have written about Grandmother Tree many times, and in groups I have shared her story in many forms. But it was the final working of her from a ball of Mother’s earth that made her story forever real. I remember looking at this blob of gray clay and thinking, “how do I build a tree?” How do I form what is in my mind’s eye and make it real? So, I touched the clay and she rose, she grew and arms grew from her. And she was alive. She was alive, AGAIN. Peace started to erupt within. I lay again looking out my childhood window. I heard the leaves sing in the old woman tree in the country where I once lived. I felt the passion of Grandmother Tree come to life, no, I mean come “into” my life again.

And Grandmother Tree grew, and she not only inspired me, but the rest of the group became invested in her as well. Not only did they know her “real” life story, but now they watched as she grew into a new reality, albeit a representation of who she was guided by my own imagination. And in this creative spirit, I wanted in her representation to also honour her death, because to me her death was as much a part of her history, her story and the life she led. So beside her, I built a small bucket and called it the bucket of tears. And in this new “her story” came a new tale to tell. You see, not only had Grandmother Tree lived and breathed for decades, if not more, now in death she had a greater story to tell.

And it came to be that the bucket of tears would forever hold what was lost in life … caring, passion, history, life, love, stories and so on.

Grandmother Tree and the bucket of tears became a hero for all of us in that group, and later in other groups and for hundreds of bereaved she became a story to hear. A story of life, passion, wisdom, death and unconditional love … she taught us all how to mourn loss.

But her story was not over. For after I had moulded this wonderful woman back into existence, the program I was in was without the glazes I needed to finish her. So, I trusted her in the capable hands of the potter who would fire her, with the following instructions … I wanted the whole piece to be done in tones of browns and blacks, much like the bark on a tree. And Grandmother Tree and the bucket of tears went off to the potter’s.

Two weeks later she returned. I remember pealing back the layers of cloth she was so tenderly wrapped in. I remember being excited, scared and thrilled. Two close friends from the group were there with me when she arrived. They too were as nervous as I was.

But it was not excitement and happiness that greeted me. One of her arms had broken off in the transit to the potter’s, so she was as I saw her … “damaged.” And worse yet, the bucket of tears was pale yellow. I did not want it yellow. I wanted it to blend in with the other greys, blacks and browns. The story was destroyed. I was sick with hurt. To me it was another pain in my bereavement of not only her, but also in the loss of my son. I said, “I don’t want her.” Keep her. Take her away.

My friends were hurt by my devastation. They told me she was beautiful. I would not believe them. They told me to give her time. I said no, I don’t want her. And I left in tears and grief for the woman I once knew. For I saw her again violated. I saw human folly in the destruction of more life. I lost my passion. But weeks passed and I saw her almost every second day as I returned to Hospice to volunteer. And my friends who knew her story talked to me. I listened. I healed.

I learned a new story. I realized that Grandmother Tree wanted the bucket of tears to stand out because the bucket held the lesson people needed to learn in her story. The stories she had from her years of life would fill a library with volumes ad nauseam, but the single story she had left in her death answered the prayers of the bereaved. Now, she was telling me about how to honour loss, not as something taken away, but as something given to learn from, to be better from, to share with others, to inspire others … to save more trees, to save more lives, to love unconditionally.

So where is Grandmother Tree now? Well, she sits on the clay shelf in my kitchen, waiting patiently, because wisdom takes time. I have thought about buying her an antique china cabinet, much like my grandmother used to have. I have looked high and low for one, and come close many times, but something still holds me back. I have dreamed of having her made into a tall sculpture in a park for those who want to sit and reflect in wisdom and love. I have thought of having a special “home” cabinet built to hang on my wall. And I am still thinking. She has not told me what to do quite yet. Truth is I am thinking she is waiting for me to reach down deep in my soul and bring her out again … to share with others what she has taught me. I think she wants me to talk to more trees and to hear their words. Maybe hug them lots. Run my aging fingers over the stories they have to tell.

When my son died, his dad said, “Mikkel was a good book. Short but a good read.” I think that is what Grandmother Tree is saying for us all to hear … “Trees are good books. Too short in time, but so worthy of every word they speak.”

Listen.