Birches

I like most that when I sit at my desk to write, I'm overlooked by tall oaks, and sweet gums, and other trees I cannot name, all just outside of the window. When I look out at them, they create such a thick green curtain that I cannot see houses or roofs. They make their own village, and they create such a collage of greens: mint greens, and hunter greens, and lime greens,and olive greens. And they wave their branches to the other in such cordial hospitality that I am taken to their front doors and forget that I am, still, sitting at a desk looking out of my window.

When  I was younger, there was a particular tree in my yard to which I gave the name, my star tree. My star tree was just a sweet gum, but as a child, the star-like leaves were enchanting and replaced "Sweet gum" entirely. I'd climb most afternoons high into the limbs and I'd hoist books up by rope and read about peter rabbit, or I'd lie and daydream, or I'd talk to the limbs.

I'd ask my star tree how it was. I'd tell it about my days. I'd say most anything to it.

Looking back, it was a sweet, childish thing to do. I don't climb my star tree any more. I broke most of the limbs when I was younger, and others died with time, so that now it would be fairly difficult to climb into it without a ladder.

In fact, I haven't climbed a tree in a very long time if you wish to know the truth. I've played with the idea, but I haven't really climbed high into a tree since I was a kid.

If you haven't read it, Robert Frost wrote an entire poem about climbing high into birches as a young boy.

"So I once was myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be."

I am not going to admit to fully understanding Frost's thinking when he wrote the poem. But what I gather from its contents is that trees offer another world to those who dare to climb into them. A chance to get away, to sit still as the cars, and the neighbors, and the neighbor's dogs, and the sun goes by.

"I'd like to get away from earth awhile.
And then come back to it and begin over."

I think children are gifted with the ability to get away from earth awhile. And I am amazed by this. Like you, I've grown up, and I am aware that as much as I can find the beauty in the trees in my backyard, I can't bring myself to talk with them anymore.

I love watching children talk to their hands, and their feet, and the toys they hold. I love watching them disappear into a world that I can't see anymore, and if I see it, it is only for a short time, and with much determination.My niece does this. She talks to people and things that I can't see, not like she does. I can pretend I do, but I don't, not really.

She laughs, and yells, and is sad, and is excited by all of the little thoughts that grow into big thoughts, and before I know it, she's created a new world and has invited me to sit and play in it. And I remember my games, and my star tree, and the little worlds I too created, and it seems so long ago. But sometimes I remember it when I look at the trees that have long and thick limbs that bow low to the ground.

It's so funny to think that we were once all children, even those of us who have mustaches, and growl at kids on their porch, and pop balloons when no one is watching. We were all once children. We all knew what it was to dream and to play and to whisper to trees. I think Frost remembered it best, and maybe he longed for it again the most.

I don't know. It makes you sad to think about the child-like faith and grace and naivety we've all lost along the way. But it makes you happy, real happy, to see children climbing up trees, talking about the fairies in the branches, and screaming at the top of their lungs with such joy and laughter that they bring that distant land, the one both terrifying and beautiful, back to you.

"I'd like to go by climbing a birth tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
 But dipped its top an set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
Once could do worse than be a swinger of birches."

For Jim

Today, I went to my Great Uncle Jim's funeral. I went expecting lots of tears, but found laughter. I love hearing that he adored me since I adored him, and because I adored him so, I wanted to write something for him. And today, I got to share these words at his funeral, and as small as that seems, it felt good sharing who he was, and what he has been to me.

For Jim,

It’s hard to write the right words. To make a person like Uncle Jim unforgettable. To make words do him justice.

You would have had to know him to understand the kind of love and joy he had. You would have had to see his cheeks turn red in laughter- sometimes, in blushing- to fully understand his sweet heart.

I remember, even now, his squinted eyes and that wide, childish grin. I picked on him often about his hat collection, that Alabama football hat in particular, just to get a grin out of him.

We never said much. We talked about nursing home staff, his “neighbors”, the weather, his picture frames on the walls, his snacks he kept hidden in drawers.

But we understood each other, him and me.

He knew I loved him,just like I knew he loved me,and I never needed to talk about more than the peanut butter crackers, or the cokes, or his tendency to win over all of those hearts down the nursing home hallways, to know it.

Some people teach you how to tie your shoelaces as a kid, some teach you how to ride a bike, some teach you arithmetic; Uncle Jim taught me about happiness. It came from deep within, some place that I could only see in his smiles and laughs, but each time I saw it, I was thankful for it, and I truly knew what “peace that surpasses all understanding” looked like.

I never heard any of his stories. I never heard any of his dreams. We never sat and talked about God or the Heavens or the purpose of life. But even so, I feel like we did. I feel it, because I saw it in his face. He didn’t hoard his love, he gave it away, and in giving it away, he gave of himself freely.

I can’t explain it right because you have to witness that kind of love and selflessness to understand it.

I guess what I’m trying to say is Uncle Jim, by the world’s standards, didn’t do great things. His name won’t be in a history book, kids won’t talk about him generations from now, and those who loved him most, when gone, will take him with them when they leave. But Jim lived a great life. And most of us are waiting to witness something great. We travel, and read novels, and visit
museums, and watch plays, and study art, and meet people, and have conversations, all in the hopes of experiencing something beyond ourselves, to feel something beyond ourselves.

But down a hallway, on the right, in a simple, white room where peanut butter crackers were stuffed in a drawer and pictures of family smiled down from their frames, there was a wonderful, kind, gentle, loving Uncle named Jim, who within his own heart, and by the grace of God, knew greatness and contentment that no novel or museum could compare to. He overflowed with it. And he gave all of his greatness away- the joy and love- to those who were willing to sit on his bed, talk about the weather, and laugh with him.