Listening to the tongues of trees . . .

As You Like It, Act 2, Scene I by William Shakespeare
     Are not these woods
more free from peril than the envious court?
How we feel but the penalty of Adam,
the seasons' difference; as, the icy fang
and churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
'This is no flattery:  these are counsellors
that feelingly persuade me what I am.'
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
which like the toad, ugly and venomous,
wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
and this our life exempt from public haunt,
finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
I would not change it.


I was going to entitle this post "Confessions of a Tree Hugger" yet as I thought about it, it's more a proclamation than a confession.  I hug trees.  I also touch, pat, caress and otherwise fondle trees.  I hesitated writing that because fondle is a word that's so often associated with things sordid and creepy these days.   The original definition, however,  means, "to stroke, handle, or touch something or somebody gently, in a loving or affectionate way."  So in addition to proclaiming I'm a tree hugger in this post, I'm rehabilitating the word fondle. 

I fondle trees.  And how can I not, when I walk in the woods and see their stories written on their bark . . . hardship and disease, uprootedness and brokenness, growth and fecundity . . . the frailty and strength heard in the tongues of trees, as Shakespeare says.   And when I do actually look up or look around long enough to notice this, I am moved to compassion, gratitude,  awe.  So I stop to fondle a tree or two along the path.

I was walking through the park a couple weeks ago and came across this tree. There was something about the way it had split at the base, partially uprooted and toppled, a beauty in its brokenness that made me pause and ponder the story it was telling me.

I daresay many human beings, myself included, tend to keep our stories inside us, the signs of our fragility are buried deep within until something breaks us open and the circles of our lives are made visible, not only to others but also to ourselves. 

This tree spoke to me about perceptions and vulnerability. It reminded me that no matter how strong and deeply rooted I think I may be, the possibility of being toppled is a reality of life that is always there.

"Sweet are the uses of adversity . . . I would not change it."