SPRING 2003George Crispin
Woodbury MM
everal weeks ago a friend of mine died. We all knew that death was imminent. The signs were there, a growing fragility, brittleness of limbs, change of color, loss of the sheen of life. To most of us, when death came it was no surprise. We were encompassed by grief, and, as people do in time of grief, we gathered together. We held a simple service, in the manner of Friends, went into the silence, held hands in a circle, spoke prayers, and reminisced about the value of the life that we had lost. There is now an empty space where my friend once stood. It was a spontaneous service. Several eyes were wet with tears. We spoke of erecting a commemoration, perhaps planting a tree. Indeed, my friend who had died was a tree.
In a photograph of Woodbury Meeting, taken in 1915, there is a picture of a young maple tree, with a diameter of, perhaps, eight inches, on the border of our property near Broad Street. That tree has been there throughout my entire life. I played under the tree as a child, and I climbed around the tree while waiting for my ride to be taken to Yearly Meeting when I was about ten years old. One of the tugs upon my heart of late is a picture taken of my son in the lap of one of our Meeting members under that same tree. I have mowed around its base thousands of times, and sawed limbs it dropped from storms, and it was a favored place to hide eggs at Easter. In the spring its early blossoms graced Broad Street and the Meeting with the promise of flowers and balmy weather.
As friends go, the maple tree was among the best. Always faithful, steadfastly present, strikingly beautiful, a shelter during storms, a sculptor in a winter snowfall, a balm for loneliness or sad times, the tree was always a place toward which I could gaze and lift my eyes refreshed. Its presence balanced the flora on the Meeting grounds and framed the Meetinghouse for those who trod Broad Street.
To my students I am often know as “Goat Man” because of my tendency to bring into the classroom a baby goat, born on my farm, each spring. The students understand this and find it quaint. But word has gotten around that I also love trees. Rumor has it that I hug them and I even talk to them. To them this is more mystifying. To tweak me with their humor and get off the subject, they will ask, “Do you really hug and talk to trees?”
“Hug, rarely,” I respond. “Talk with? That depends upon what you mean by ‘talk.’ I prefer ‘commune.’”
“How does one ‘commune’ with trees?” they ask.
“Mystically,” I respond. “Why must we assume all communication must come through words?” I say.
This leads to a discussion about mysticism and communication and philosophical discourse. But the point is left for the students to ponder. Why must all consciousness be like our own? Rather obvious it is that the sentience of a man, a whale, a cow, and a butterfly are probably not on the same level, and perhaps different in character. But why must consciousness stop there? In any definitive way I do not know the answer.
But what I do know is that we are better off as human beings when we leave open the possibility that consciousness may not in the least be restricted to our own, and, in fact, may permeate the universe. Additionally, and more important to me, that the act of loving in itself brings out the best in us and reveals possibilities for spiritual development that may exceed our broadest imagination.
Meanwhile, I make no apologies for communing with trees, and I certainly will continue to love them.
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Wednesday, February 18, 2004 at 08:19 AM
