by Becky Shafi
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Lessons from the trees
This morning I woke earlier than I probably would have liked. My son and daughter wanted to go for a run and I was going to show them an old backwoods fire road that I knew of.
We’re on vacation at our beloved Gold Lake Family camp, tucked away in the California Sierras, elevation six thousand five hundred feet with eleven cabins, three tent cabins, a main lodge and a rec hall. Altogether we are sixty-three aunts, uncles and cousins. We brought twenty-seven cars, one boat, three guitars and one dog. We’ve been gathering during the summers at this high mountain camp for almost three generations. We’re a close-knit, jumbled, variety pack of loving, quarreling, playing, singing and hugging mass of humanity. We enjoy each other’s company and those family members that couldn’t be with us this time and those who have passed on are still close with us as we tell our stories and remember out Gold Lakes past.
This morning as I walk with my children through the meadows and forests of my youth, my thoughts are sentimental and sweet. The trees are waving their greetings, the fresh green grasses of summer are bright and inviting while the birds chirp their morning music.
We find the old dirt road between the trees and my kids take off on their run. They are much faster than I have ever been or ever will be and they have left me alone in the quiet morning sunshine. I wander into a pretty little glade between the pines. It’s quiet except for the breeze and the birds. I stand, being still and observant. I breathe deep of the mountain air and listen.
As I slowly become part of the forest, I realize how much the forest and this piney glen are like my family. In this small area there are fresh and energetic young tree sprouts standing proudly in their youth. There are older trees with dead areas at the bottom that are now sprouting with new growth as they reach higher up toward the sky. There are tall and majestic older trees, standing stoic, staid and comforting. Other tall pines are in the stages of early death, with dry and deadened wood running up and down their beautiful, tall trunks. Some are growing crooked, having been through a hard winter or a bad patch that stunted their growth. Other trees seem a bit different, with pine needles long and pointed rather than fanning out in boughs and branches that are laced with tiny, pointy needles.
For all of their many differences, the trees stand together in beautiful harmony - the entire not complete without each individual - the whole not quite as beautiful without each solitary and unique quality.
My kids return from their run and we head back toward camp. It’s a glorious morning and I feel I’ve been changed. I realize that I may not have particularly wanted to wake up so early this morning. It would have been easier to have slept a bit more and then walk bleery-eyed to the lodge to drink my coffee. But I would have missed this early morning glen and this communion with nature. I realize that my children have helped me to grow.
The same is true with this week with my extended family. I could have easily chosen to stay home from camp, to stay at work and earn a living, to continue with my daily life - but I would have missed sitting next to my cousins at the campfire and hearing their stories. I would have missed sitting with my aunts and uncles, mother and father at the dinner table. I would have missed our hikes and our adventures, conversations and rememberances.
We are the pine trees. We gather together in this mountain paradise and commune with each other in love and support. We are in every stage of growth - of life and of death, of youth, middle age and majestic seniors. We suffer our rough patches and celebrate our regenerations. We stand united in our starkness, our stickiness and our scraggly, barked tough exteriors. We are the forest. Together, we never stop growing.
