I live
in a small house in a small town with a small back yard. When they were first
built sixty years ago all the houses on our street were identical and now, despite the
various additions many have, they are still not special at all. Stretching out behind
our lot and those of our neighbours, however, is a patch of undeveloped forest,
perhaps 200 m in each direction, full of mature red and white pines. My bedroom
faces the back, so this, which I call the ‘back woods’ as if we lived on a farm
or something, is what I see each morning when I first wake up.
It is marvelous.
For
many years when I was under-employed and my marriage was on the rocks and my
best friend had moved 3000 miles away my kids were seemingly stuck permanently
in the neediest stages of childhood, lying in bed for five minutes in the
morning and looking out the window at the countless soaring red pine tree
trunks, the lush feathery branches of the white pines, and the glimpses of sky
beyond, was a quasi-spiritual experience that gave me the inner peace I needed
to face the day. The red pines, having been reaching straight for the sky for
at least a century, are impossibly tall and skinny, as majestic and awe
inspiring as the pillars in any European cathedral, and the white pines, oh, I do not
speak English well enough to describe appropriately their grandeur.
It is
simply beautiful.
Today
is no exception. The sun is out, shining brilliantly, giving the needle covered
branches a peculiar yellow green colour and the tall trunks a camouflage of
light and dark that almost obscures them. The small patches of sky that are
visible behind are blue blue blue. It will be another perfect day here in
paradise. In July it tends to be too hot during the afternoon but by this time
of year there are many hints that fall is already on its way and it is
beautiful outside 24/7. I listen to the incessant squawking of a flock of
grackles that have descended nearby and the annoyed chattering response of a
squirrel. In the distance a couple crows can be heard conversing back and
forth.
I love
it.
I
remember the first time I walked into this room; seeing nothing but trees
through the window gave the feeling of being separate, away, as if in an
isolated cottage on a lake far from anywhere, and, to this day, the view
creates an illusion that I am somewhere, somewhere else.
For years if I
was unhappy I often lay here looking out at the trees and it was as if I were
alone in the universe. I could forget for a few minutes that I was here, in
this house, in this town, in this life. The trees, so sure of their purpose,
apparently unperturbed by the town that had sprung up around them, emanated a
patience and peacefulness that inspired in me a calmness and encouraged me to
emulate their stoic nature. I could lie here and gaze with wonder at the beauty
of nature sure in the knowledge that if I were a photographer I could take a
hundred pictures from here, each different yet beautiful, and fill a whole
coffee table book with them.
A
gentle breeze starts to whisper and the fluttering of some poplar leaves
catches my attention and brings me back to the present. Why am I going exactly?
Why am I leaving behind these lovely trees of mine? In past the trees have always
represented an escape of sorts, a secret and unspoken whisper of desire for
separation from the here and now, but today they are just the opposite, they
are the continuity of everything that is safe and secure and familiar about my
life. Today if I listen hard enough I can hear, in the oh so very soft movements
of the branches, a personal reassurance from them that they will still be here
when I return.
I am
not a photographer. I never have been. I bought a camera to take on my trip,
the first one I have ever bought (is that possible, did I bring up three kids
without ever having bought a camera? I guess I did. Weird.) but it is still in
the box. (And it is not a ‘real’ camera, it is, as the salesman pointed out, red,
which apparently says everything, effectively equates it to lipstick.) I don’t
want to open it. I fear I will only be disappointed by the difference, the vast
difference, between what I can see with my eyes - and my heart - and what I can
get the camera to capture. How could I possibly take a picture that shows that
the trees and I converse with each other, even if my camera were black? (I like the fact that my camera is just a toy, it
gives me an excuse, already, for not succeeding in taking the photos I would want to. I plan
to practise with it for now and buy myself a proper one, for
my next significant birthday, make a more serious effort then. I believe in baby steps.) I consider going to get my camera and trying to
take a photo with it but instead snap a shot with my phone. I make a note to
self – find a photo course to take when you get home.
The
purpose of this trip is not to look outwards and produce a fantastic photo
essay, it is much more to look inwards and find a more permanent peace, to become, if you will, more like my trees themselves. If, however, I am successful on this trip, then,
maybe, on the next one, I will set out with that very different goal. But I am
getting ahead of myself.
Bye
trees. I will miss you.
