Shadows, Part 3

Sometimes shadows hide things. It’s easy to imagine in the near-dark of late dusk that they cloak monsters or wild animals or evil men, waiting for the last light to fade completely before they leap (or creep) out to attack us. We think that perhaps if we sit very, very still, don’t bat an eyelash, don’t make a sound, barely dare to breathe, we can pass the night unmolested. Or maybe we’re paralyzed because the shadows might be concealing our way. We don’t go forward for fear of missing a signpost or a fork in the road and ending up lost, far from where we set out to go, or just stepping off into a mire of quicksand or over the edge of an unseen precipice. Those dangers are, of course, real possibilities, and sometimes – sometimes – sitting down and waiting for the light to return before moving on may be the wisest course of action. But not always, and never permanently. We can’t stay forever peering out of the makeshift huts we build ourselves on the edges of the shadowy places, which, if we’re at all honest, we know don’t offer any real protection anyway. Sometimes we need to look at the shadows differently through the last shreds of sunset or the final flickers of our guttering torches. Sometimes shadows hide us, screening us from the eyes of those who would harm us, providing us cover to slip past hostile sentinels unnoticed. They may, blessedly, shroud obstacles we would think insurmountable, or veil dangers that would freeze our blood if we could see them clearly. Perhaps they prevent our being deceived into taking what would look, in broad daylight, like a shortcut or an easier road to our intended destination. Shadows might cause us to be more alert to the soft touch of a guiding hand, to listen more closely for a still, small voice.

Another Perspective on Shadows

Baby Girl the Second and I frequently snuggle on the couch for a few minutes just after she wakes up. This morning, her attention was caught by a freestanding stereo speaker directly in front of us and its shadow angled off to the left on the wall behind. "Mom, why doesn't the shadow look the same way?" About five minutes after I showed her that if we moved four feet to the right, in line with the sunlight coming in through the patio door, the shadow matched up with the speaker, it dawned on me. Yeah. The position of the light source in relation to the object determines which way the shadow falls. And how we see it, how distorted it is, depends upon where we are standing in relation to the light source.

Other Trees I Have Been Between

We traveled, unplannedly, this week, to spend time with family members we rarely see, to join together to send Jessie off on her long-planned journey beyond the walls of this world. That is a topic for another post, or several. But, the timing being what it was, there were Christmas trees embedded in the scenery of the event (and not bad, that, seeing everywhere a reminder of the eternal evergreen-ness of life, and of the coming of the One who both made and redeemed our life).

The morning after the funeral, several of us sat in the living room of my parents' house with my mother, and we told my brother's wife and my daughters little bits of our life history, represented by the ornaments on the tree in the corner. The oldest decorations are little plastic bells that Mama has been putting on her tree "as long as I can remember," which is sixty-some years. Then there are the small blue bulbs and the icicles from Mama and Daddy's first Charlie Brown Christmas tree, a month after they were married. There are handcrafted items clearly made by people of varying age and skill, some folks long gone, others just long grown up.

I know my parents' tree is not unique, that many of us decorate our trees in this manner, with those "special" ornaments that we hang in the back, out of sight, because we can't bear to exclude the memories they carry. Our Christmas trees are a chronicle of each holiday season and all the times between, from one year to the next, from childhood to age and beyond.

Shadows, Part 2

The word "shadow" has sixteen definitions or shades of meaning in my dictionary. One of them is simply "darkness." In turn, "darkness" has a number of different nuances. The natural physical darkness of night is both an invitation and a facilitator for our bodies to rest. But that same night-darkness is feared by my young daughter, making many nights uncomfortable and unrestful, leaving me exhausted at dawn. This weariness then makes me vulnerable to the darkness of depression, which seems always to hover nearby, ready to seep in through any crack in my defenses. A friend of mine, who understands this struggle well, speaks of depression as "the shadow."

I've gradually become aware, the past few years, that the depression which assails me has a component of seasonal affective disorder as well - the darker days and longer nights of winter take a vague but noticeable toll on me.

Yet, in my heightened awareness at this season, I have found unexpected, sometimes startling, redemptive ways of looking at darkness. T. S. Eliot says to let "the darkness of God" come upon you. C. S. Lewis's hero Ransom finds the darkness on Perelandra dense with the presence, the spirit of God. George MacDonald notes that "all things seem rushing straight into the dark, but the dark still is God." And as Samwise Gamgee finds, looking up out of the forsaken land, a star shines most brightly against the darkest sky.

Shadows, Part 1

There are, naturally, shadows between the trees. Within the past year, a number of shadows have fallen across my straight and narrow winding way. Some were mere wisps of grey, blown away easily at the breath of a breeze. Some were thick, heavy masses of black that I didn't think I'd ever be able to see through or emerge from. And of course there were many others of varying shades betwixt and between.

I've been thinking a lot about shadows as I've continued journeying. I've been pondering what they signify, and noticing that they sometimes look different from a little distance. I've been wondering where they come from, and where they go, and what imprint they leave.

Watching the Leaves Grow

Baby Girl just came and led me by the hand, eyes closed (mine, not hers), to the little tree in the backyard. "Look, Mama, it's growing leaves!" "Do you know what that means?" I asked. "Yes! Spring is als-most (her dialect) here!"

Following me back inside to coax the puppy out again with her, she announced, "I'm gonna go back and watch the leaves grow!"

Pure serendipity - that's what I always say this surprise-happy-40th-birthday-baby girl is. As she so often does, she has again innocently drawn my vision out of the tunnel of I'm-so-far-behind-must-get-this-done-today into the open air of in-spite-of-all-that-did-or-might-happen spring is als-most here, and it is full of wonder, and sometimes the most necessary thing we can do is watch the leaves grow.

Trees I Have Loved, Part 4

Baby girl painted this tree for me, randomly, a few months ago. She has amazing insight sometimes, this little one, pulling images and phrases "out of the everywhere into here," unaware of their breathtaking significance for those of us who have been on this path longer than she has.

A Little Further Along the Way

The straight and narrow path has been a tortuous climb here lately, beset by rockslides hurtling down on my head, confounded by chasms suddenly yawning before my feet. But by the grace of God, a trinity of fellow travelers, faithful friends, has come alongside to encourage and exhort, to be here with me. In His mercy, I have seen, even from these precarious places, glimpses of a far green country. Because of the Lord's great love I am not consumed.

Trees for Life

Here's a beautiful website I discovered last week: http://www.treesforlife.org.uk/ There's some especially neat stuff under the Caledonian Forest tab: species profiles, images of the forest, mythology and folklore.

Trees I Have Loved, Part 3

And as they watched, upon the mound there came forth two slender shoots; and silence was over all the world in that hour, nor was there any other sound save the chanting of Yavanna. Under her song the saplings grew and became fair and tall, and came to flower; and thus there awoke in the world the Two Trees of Valinor...The one had leaves of dark green that beneath were as shining silver, and from each of his countless flowers a dew of silver light was ever falling, and the earth beneath was dappled with the shadows of his fluttering leaves. The other bore leaves of a young green like the new-opened beech; their edges were of glittering gold. Flowers swung upon her branches in clusters of yellow flame, formed each to a glowing horn that spilled a golden rain upon the ground; and from the blossom of that tree there came forth warmth and a great light. Telperion the one was called in Valinor, and Silpion and Ninquelote, and many other names; but Laurelin the other was, and Malinalda, and Culurien, and many names in song beside. ~Quenta Silmarillion, Of the Beginning of Days, J.R.R. Tolkien

Trees I Have Loved, Part 2

There is a touchstone tree in the corner yard at the top of my block. This tree - I think it's an ash tree - embodies to me the very essence of tree-ness. It is quite large, filling but not crowding the space it inhabits. It is of substantial, well-proportioned girth, emanating solidity and strength. It is pleasingly but not too perfectly symmetrical. Its limbs stretch to every perimeter of the yard, at such a height as to be sheltering and shading but not smothering.

The house at the corner has stood empty at various times during my sojourn here - it stands empty now. But the tree is untroubled in its solitude, a friendly sentinel, waiting watchful and welcoming.

Along the Way

It's an iconic image of relaxation - a hammock slung between two trees, inviting rest, inspiring closed-eyed contemplation, intimating repose. Every so often along this journey, we round a bend in our straight and narrow path and come upon a hammock, graciously provided for our respite near streams in the desert, slung between pines in the wasteland.

Trees I Have Loved, Part 1

The trees of my earliest memories are those in Grandma's yard. Mama remembers when, during her childhood, the house was built and the trees were planted; by the time of my early childhood, some twenty years later, the place was comfortably settled and had, at least to my small consciousness, the air of that which always had been and always would be.

Dominating the front yard were two ash trees, their massive trunks strong and steadfast, their graceful boughs spreading, sheltering and shading the yard, making a living canopy of dappled light and shadow under which my cousins and brother and I could play untroubled by the hot South Texas sun.

The Path of Paradox

It is something of a paradox, this path between the trees. Straight is the gate and narrow is the way; yet it winds along through various terrains, twisting and turning, with minor bumps here and major detours there. It leads through the sea, across the desert, into the valley, up to the high places. It brings us to way stations in expected places, beside rivers of water in dry places and in the shadows of great rocks in weary lands; and in places unthought-of, in the presence of our enemies. Some days we jog along in companionable conversation with fellow travelers, at times we walk in thoughtful silence, some nights we toil uphill feeling utterly spent and alone, forgetting that a Friend journeys with us, closer than a brother.

How I Feel About Trees

Trees to me are strength, stability, solace. I feel sheltered and soothed under their shadows. Serendipitously, two of the most-frequently-traveled thoroughfares of my daily life are lovely, tree-lined boulevards. I often find myself breathing deeply and calming as I drive along under the arching boughs, a fact unknown to but nonetheless undoubtedly beneficial to those whose paths intersect mine on this journey.