Climbing

This is one of my favorite childhood memories. I have told it before in other settings. In sharing this story, I discovered that it has a universal quality. Almost everyone has had a special tree. That’s cool.

I was nearly thirty when I read an account of a woman who tried to describe the presence of the sacred in her childhood. She claimed that, for her, a tree was sacred. She claimed that this tree had, in fact, raised her.* A rather unconventional idea. But tears filled my eyes as I read the words, because I, too, had a tree.

My tree was an elm. Not a Midwestern elm - smoother, with silver bark. Tall and sleek, green and beautiful. There were many days when my house was not a place fit to inhabit. It was filled with confusion and chaos. Each day, as soon as I had completed the minimum required tasks, I would slip outside (and, because we were in California, slipping out was possible year round).

Many days I would knock at a neighbor’s door and ask, “Can Betsy play?” or “Can Laura come out?” Often the answer was, “No. She has to do chores,” or “She has to ‘practice’ before she can play.” It sounded so severe and regimented at my friends’ homes. Things were looser at my house. Musical instruments were played only when desired. Chores were done strictly to unclog the main arteries. Once we could see the floor and close all the cupboards, closets, and bedroom doors, we were off. So I often had time on my hands. I might ride my bike or play with dolls in an outer room. Overall, though, I was a people person and did not do well for long stretches of time on my own.

As an alternative to my solitary playtime, I would climb my tree. The tree sat in the center of the front yard, next to a fence. There was a trick to “entering” the tree environs. One needed to walk into a sea of large-leafed ivy and stand just under a particular straight and thick tree branch. Next, the climber would grab a special spot, pull in toward the chest and kick over at the same time. Once atop the branch one could either continue with the ascent or perform a “once around” circular motion and twirl the branch, just for added flair. This was Level One. Then it was time to get serious. Slide toward the trunk, perch on the fence, push up to the next, smaller branch; swing the legs up and pull one’s torso forward and up. At last, I had arrived at Level Two in the strong solid “V” of the tree’s main branches.

The V of Level Two was the most common stopping place. From this spot, I was firmly held, nicely camouflaged. I was also high enough to see into most of the neighbors’ front yards, to spot any pedestrian in the vicinity and to watch my sisters pull up in cars after their outings. It was amazing what one could observe from here. But the alternative, when things at home were really unpleasant, when I really wanted distance from the world was to go to Level Three.

Level Three was elevated, ethereal - and precarious. There was one medium-size branch and a choice of many smaller branches to help with navigation. Generally there was an accompanying rush of adrenaline to aid the next move. The small branches would sway or even crack under my toes. I remember legs wrapped around a larger branch, clinging tightly, before shimmying up to the final destination. (There was also a Level Four but it was so frightening, I only reached it twice.)

The third level destination was a smaller V than the first, a bit less luxurious and comfortable. My torso would have to be wedged tightly between the V of two large branches. However, discomfort was quickly forgotten. From here one could see the neighbors’ rooftops and several backyards (these were all single-story homes of early 1960’s vintage). A person would never be spotted on this Level. For one thing, no one in her right mind would imagine sitting up this high. For another, the leaves and branches were so profuse that this area had its own fragrant and protected atmosphere. I am sure if, at the age of seven, eight or nine, anyone asked me to describe heaven, it would have had bright green leaves and gray-green branches.

At night, in dreams, I imagined flying. I remember being chased by all manner of monsters, criminals, and playground enemies and then simply remembering, “Oh, that’s right, I can fly” and would take off. When I was awake, sitting in the V on Level Three was nearly as magical. An angry mother or father, a grumpy sister, a selfish friend. There was one solution to these things: a quick escape to Level Three. Kick up and over in one motion, slide to the fence, pull, swing, reach, pull again, wrap legs, shimmy, reach, pull... safety, peace.

If I was not raised by my tree, I was lovingly held and nurtured by it. To this day, my favorite symbol of God’s presence is not the cross, nor the star of David, but the leaf and branch, the Tree of Life. A student in my youth group once inscribed her art project with words that captured my heart, lyrics from a choral anthem, “The tree of life my soul has seen, laden with fruit and always green.”

When I was around 28 years old, I took my family to see the old neighborhood. This was last time I visited. The tree had been cut down. The moment I realized it was absent, I recognized its significance for me. “Mommy, why are you crying?” my daughter asked. “A tree is gone,” I whispered. I have not wanted to visit the old neighborhood again.

The sacred was revealed to me in childhood, through a leafy incarnation. In my late twenties, I found the sacred in an array of people, groups, and sensations. At fifty-something, “Everything is holy now,” as Peter Mayer says. The sacred is in trees, grandchildren, children, ocean waves, memories, hilltops, music, and enduring relationships.


* The other tree story is in The Feminine Face of God: The Unfolding of the Sacred in Women, Ruth Anderson & Patricia Hopkins, Bantam Books.