Ode to Trees

I wanted to go to a park. By myself. After dropping off one of my children at an activity, I went to the park nearest to our house, coincidentally, one of my favorites. Long ago, it was a pecan farm that was later donated to the city and turned into a park. Blessedly, it was more of a preservation project with only one tiny playscape to make it “look” like a park.

I kicked off my flip-flops. The grass was soft, freshly mowed, Calyptocarpus filling the gaps between grass patches and sporting tiny yellow flowers. I spotted a tree with a huge gash in it, still very much alive and tall, with a thick, impressive trunk. I stood with my palms on its massive barky body.

What is it about nature that so often brings out the very essence of us, strips our heart and mind of conventions and rules, making us emotionally and mentally naked? As I stood, I cried, perhaps feeling sorry for the large gash I saw.

I honestly don’t know why I cried.

As I walked deeper into the park, I looked at the tree again and noticed that the limbs (by the look of it, at least two) were sewn off at the gash, making the whole “wound” look exactly like a heart. I took a deep breath and kept walking. You see, I was walking to a specific tree. My children and I call it “our tree.” It is not, of course.

Like most trees in that park, it is a pecan tree. It is large and sprawling, but it doesn’t grow straight up. It grows at about a 20-degree angle. It is practically lying on the ground, with the rest of the branches trailing on one side of the trunk, some disappearing beneath the earth and emerging again. Ever since my children were born (and they are now in the teen and pre-teen stages), we’ve gone and hung out by the tree.

I stood, my whole body leaning into it. Though I was the one wrapping my arms around one of its vast branches, it felt as if its barky limbs wrapped around me. I cried. Again. Then I sat in a perfect spot where another branch grew from the trunk, watching giant ants crawl along it. I asked the tree to divert their path so that I wouldn’t get bitten. The ants seemed either to part like water around an enormous obstacle (me) or turn around and go in the opposite direction. Not a bite. I whispered my thanks, promising to come back later.

Upon return home, my daughter was delighted at the prospect of a light picnic, an art project at the park, a book reading, and writing under the tree. We went.

“I wish we knew its name,” I murmured.

“Can we give it one?” my daughter asked.

I thought about it. People give names to houses, cars, and inanimate objects that belong to them (we have an old clock we call Horace, which has “dementia” and only lets out a beat occasionally, at odd hours, and always wrong). People name their pets and children. People name their discoveries, such as new plant species or diseases. I explained as much to my daughter.

“No…” I said, “It doesn’t belong to us. It was here before us, probably before either of us was born. But … I do wish I knew its name if it had one.”

Scientifically speaking, physical contact with a tree trunk increases oxytocin (a hormone responsible for bonding and relaxation). Your cortisol (a stress hormone) goes down. Trees release natural airborne chemicals called phytoncides. You breathe them. They’ve been shown to boost the human immune system. Again, science and magic dance their strange dance, intertwining with each other, coming together, going apart, like two passionate lovers fighting for dominion.

Go and stand by a tree. It’s called grounding, earthing. Let it nurture you.