A Tree or an Obelisk?

Today, I sit in my place of sanctuary, my temple, my meditation center, my moment to be me and not me. The floor beneath my feet smooth concrete. The window onto the world an open, double-width garage door. Ambient temperature near 20 deg C.

Dozens of trees in near view. Hundreds behind those. I am not a painter so the colour of the landscape takes the form of leaves and branches and trunks and vines and pieces and parts built by my species.

Deciduous trees pulling back into themselves for winter, their suncatchers sealing off at the base, losing their breath, their purpose changing, waving at me one more time before their trip in the fall.

Am I a tree or an obelisk? Do I sway with the wind but hold my place because of strong roots, or do I hold my position because of massive weight and size, rootless?

Metaphors and similes. Which is more athletic? Which is more academic? Can I run faster or push you over? You know what I'm saying.

The grass is in the ground because of the tree overhead. The rotting tree feeds both and doesn't know it doesn't exist.

If ten generations of chickadees have fed at my feeders and I don't feed the eleventh, why does the twelfth stop by and ask for food? Are feeders a universal chickadee food sign?

My friend, the maple tree, stands next to the dead cedar tree, perpendicular to the ground and straight as a compass needle. North is not important but the Earth's core is. Maybe. I think. At least that's what I've been told.

I've never heard a tree laugh. But I've seen a satisfied one. "Ooh! Aah! Feel the sun heat my fluids. Grow leaves, grow!" A sugar maple I could tap and boil its fluids for sweet syrup to pour over breakfast foods or dessert. But I don't. I let it and the wisteria have their twisted relationship on the edge of the suburban forest.

Whispering oaks loom over us all. The mimosa sneaks into a lit corner and displays the last of its clawlike leaves.

These trees are under my protection. I choose to let them be, having trimmed a few branches to keep them from scraping my car but otherwise letting them grow as high as they please. Do they care? Of course not. When a strong enough wind blows, many of these trees would crash down on my car, my house, my driveway, my gate to the backyard garden. They would not uproot and run away from all this to protect me. In the meantime, their shade in summer keeps my house cool. Their leaves in winter provide food for grass and cover for squirrel food. Birds use their branches to find seeds and grubs and hide from predators. An equal bargain? Perhaps. But we don't keep count.

And what of the obelisk in which I sit? What makes this edifice of sticks and nails sit in place, impervious to breezes and thunderstorms? A solid base? Hardly. The ground beneath us shifts and moves, its idea of time different than mine.

If I am not the trees in front of me or the obelisk around me, what am I?

I am these questions. I am the space between the trees and the obelisk. I am the breath of the trees and the meaning to this obelisk. I am filler. I am paste. I am action. I am noise. I am what they are and what they are not.

We say that time slows down in a garden but the leaves here are constantly moving, measurable down to nano- and pico-scales if we choose. We mean the plants in front of us are not a group of people whose faces and actions we scan at a people pace. I can yell at a tree and it won't be offended but I can't ask a tree for immediate help in an emergency. I can climb its branches or chop it up for firewood.

This obelisk is made of trees in its framework and skin so trees braced together form an obelisk.

I find myself by my place in the environment around me. At times, I prefer the environment of people; at times, I prefer the environment of trees. Trees may be obelisks and obelisks may be people but trees can't be people but people and trees can give each other breath and life.

I live in this time. I live nowhere else. I live with the trees and the people. We measure time in different ways - sunshine, seasons, calendars, clocks. We eat and we feed. We live and we die. We are. We be. Timeless and well-placed.