Oak-ay. Yesterday morning I learned that oak energy possesses a fairly slick sense of humor. Not to mention powerful dream tendrils but that's not something I quite realized until this morning. Visiting these oaks as a regular part of my daily life has been illuminating in ways that make me want to INSIST that everyone everywhere go find their nearest moving water and then also find in that space a tree that's clearly waiting to be found. In and amidst everything else they do and dream and feel I'm pretty sure they're also definitely waiting for US. Because of what's happening between me and the oaks. And the obvious fact that there's nothing particularly special about me and yet this entirely mind/heart/self/soul/universe expanding experience is happening to and through me.
Trees, I'm pretty sure, would like to give this type of heightened and permanently altered awareness to as many human beings who are open to it.
Note: If it's impossible for you to physically visit moving water and its nearby trees then let yourself remember a favorite place from your life's experience. Put the memory on your inner sensory wide-screen and BE where you once were. Push into the water's memory of YOU. See if a tree appears spontaneously. You recall it being there, all of a sudden, or the image rises spontaneously from moving water in your mind as a gift to your body as well as your brain.
Dare to ask for that gift if it doesn't appear spontaneously. See if there isn't SOME way to connect to your memories as a present tense experience. It will be uniquely powerful and entirely real because you've had to actively jury-rig circuits of circumstance and ability in order to make the connection sing.
In my walking and snapping tour of the river I noticed the young oak tree that radiated such joy in its sentry position right at the edge of the river's flood plain. Yesterday it radiated a growing understanding of Oak's place, and thus its own, within this particular slice of Landscape society. I stood in a ceaseless and very chilly drizzle trying to work out to what precise category of progeny this tree 'belonged' in relation to the pair I'd just visited.
I'm not so far away. For lack of a better way to put it I stumbled into a tiny window of understanding the young oak was singing a song of determination. To and for itself. In order to know its own oakeness more fully. I thought at the time the tree was singing about the river as it slows and thickens noticeably, week-to-week. Writing these words I understand that would be me projecting the songs I sing myself concerning the absence of flowers. Summer's right around the corner. And in my adult life I have made it true. Summer, for me, will always be synonymous with 'growing season'. And that's something that begins, ready or not, as soon as the first seed catalogs arrive.
Upon reflection I think the tree was speaking of its lone status. And growing awareness that Oak reigns, in this tiny speck of Place, far more fully and subtly than was noticeable to me while the hardwoods still had leaves. Oaks stick out at this time of year because their leaves were the last to turn color, dry to death and fall to the ground. At this point in the year they're the only hardwoods with any stray leaves still attached to the tree.
Thus I could look around and pragmatically grasp a shred of the deeper mysterious beauty: The young oak tree is gaining relational awareness capacity to share and receive information from a tribal network of pheromones and root systems. I stood perfectly still in the unpleasantly chilly rain that didn't bother me in the slightest. I let both that surprising fact and the young oak's continued triumphant learning curve sink in as a cellular experience.
The rain we had all day and evening yesterday cast an extremely low ceiling. I walked around at length taking inadvertent videos I thought were actually pics in the form of killer New Glimpses into this tiny roadside universe. This was possible at a relaxed sauntering pace because I left a solid hour of time to spend here. Truth being greater than fiction: During the colder new england months I am not the hale and hearty type unless I can immediately come inside and strip down, warm up and don dry clothes from the skin out. That's inconveniently princessy and particular of me, I do realize. The oaks seemed to know all about it as well. When I approached them the one on the right (above is the one on the left) started vibing something about looka here it's the coming of the Oak-asional woodswoman.
Given the world we're all inhabiting at the moment I've developed zero problem making immediate jumps to this other form of what goes on in the same spaces we humans inhabit within our dogged insistence of making ourSelves and our endless foibles top of the consciousness pinnacle - but still. I did not care (certainly not on top of having already yielded to the moment to the point of the rain not-bothering me, anyway...) to be flexible enough to imagine that Oak medicine - of all stalwart and perservering things - would be inherently funny.* To itself if a little more than just a little bit too on the nose for my own tastes. And in the moment I flashed on understanding so simple and obvious I was fully downshifted by it. Whoa. Absolutely none of this was chance or a mere happenstance of right place/right time. The tree on the right, heckling me with sure swift pun-laden remarks was a representation of my husband so authentically there in that moment because that's how deeply embedded the oak medicine spirit is within his own soul and spirit.
~*~Loving irascible human inconsistencies as I [sometimes] do I have to point out that I've spent pretty much my entire life grasping quite thoroughly that without our ability to laugh and authentically see the humor of A Thing we are, collectively and as individual soul entities pretty much dead in the water.~*~
That would make me ... a married-in Oak? Partially oaken by nature left unexplored? On my first visit I felt a natural kinship to the oak on the left. I thought Lunar/female and, thus, the other tree would be Solar/male. Grasping this seemed more than sufficient. On some oak-casions people need to be hit over the head repeatedly in order to go deeper. Minus the pun these are my own words. Said many many times. Most often, I'm pretty sure, to the J.-man. As I admitted that to myself here on the screen for the first time since having this experience I chuckled. But, in final truth to be told, the lone song-dog in my heart started howling appreciatively right there on the spot.
Nonetheless on a somber morning full of rain rather than snow as predicted I was reflective. Woke up with a sense 'the Lunar tree' wished me to investigate the wounds humanity had so glaringly inflicted upon them in order to make room for the road. We sacrificed, she conveyed, in a way you must learn from. Given the rush of insights I experienced once I arrived it now makes sense that, when I first approached this pair, I was most drawn to the 'the wounds' of a weathering and wind-wrought nature.
Is anyone who reads here a bird-watcher with special knowledge of ground fowl? I know only the basic local triune of pheasant, grouse, and woodcock. While walking back up the rise from my detailed and much enjoyed inspection of the rainy boat launch - I inadvertently disturbed and partially distressed a female not-duck but with similar (just more delicate and russet) coloration and markings to a female mallard. We shared a moment. I hope I soothed her within it.