The Being Tree

At first, I noticed the shade before I noticed the tree itself.

On hot summer afternoons, a cool patch of grass stretched beneath its canopy like an invitation. As I was drawn toward the tree, I found myself looking into that corner of the yard more and more often.

It was the central figure in the space.

I was grateful to whomever had planted it so many years ago. I was humbled by how long the tree had dominated the yard, and I wondered whether the person who planted it could have imagined how large it would grow.

Its branches were thick enough to hold two blue-and-white swings. Strong enough to climb for a better view. Its leaves marked the seasons—growth, abundance, release, and rest—as the tree moved through its life with purpose.

When I examined it more closely, my heart dropped a little.

A large branch had been removed near the trunk, leaving a round scar where it once grew. Two chains cut deeply into the remaining branches.

The restraints remained.

The tree kept growing.

There were answers I would never have to questions I desperately wanted to ask. I would never know who planted it, how many children climbed its branches, why the chains were there, or why no one ever removed them.

I grieved this tree’s story, but I marveled at her resilience.

Months later, I woke in the middle of the night, my head swirling from hours of racing thoughts. In the middle of the dreamy whirlwind, a name appeared:

Ramona.

I didn’t know who she was, but I knew she was a tree.

For the first few minutes after waking, I assumed I would be writing a song about a tall, solitary pine named Ramona. I shuffled into my office to capture the idea before it disappeared.

Then another thought arrived.

No.

I am Ramona.

I trusted her.

Ramona was her name.

Things reveal themselves when the time is right. I was delighted to finally have a name to use when I talked to her about tree things.

In her own way, Ramona commanded attention. Her massive height. Her wandering branches. Her thousands of leaves. Her scars. She did not ask to be noticed, but once I began paying attention, I could no longer regard her as part of the landscaping.

She was a presence.

Ramona offered places to rest, a playground for squirrels and birds, respite from the afternoon sun, and a vibrant carpet of leaves in the fall. She did not provide these things in exchange for affection. She did not measure what she received against what she offered.

She was simply being a tree.

The older I get, the harder it is for me to read The Giving Tree as a story about love.

The tree gives the boy her apples, her branches, and her trunk. Her devotion is measured by how much of herself she is willing to surrender. By the end, almost nothing remains.

The boy receives everything.

The tree loses herself.

Perhaps that once looked like unconditional love to me. Now it feels more like erasure. I no longer want a love story in which devotion is proved by disappearance.

Ramona offers another way of being.

She does not saw off her own branches to demonstrate her worth. She does not become smaller so that someone else can become more comfortable. She grows toward the light. She takes up the space available to her. She changes with the seasons and offers what naturally follows from being fully herself.

Her shade is not a sacrifice.

It is a consequence of her becoming.

Ramona never tried to become useful.

She became a tree.

The usefulness followed.

That distinction changes the questions I ask about love.

Not:

How much of myself am I willing to give away?

But:

How can I love when I become fully myself?

What can I provide when I become fully myself?

Perhaps the world does not need me diminished in the name of generosity. Perhaps my best offerings come from becoming more completely who I am.

A musician makes music.

A writer writes.

A mother creates a place from which a child can leave and return.

A friend pays attention.

A tree grows.

Someone planted Ramona years before I arrived.

I do not know whether that person ever sat beneath her full canopy. Maybe they moved before she became the central figure in the yard. Maybe they watched her grow for decades. Maybe they planted a sapling without thinking much about the people who would someday live in its shade.

Whatever their intention, I benefit from their act.

I have spent much of my life enjoying the shade of things I did not plant.

My mother planted music in our home before I understood that it would become a life. Teachers planted confidence and curiosity. Friends planted trust. Recovery planted the possibility of another future. People I may never meet built communities, traditions, and places where I eventually found belonging.

The gifts often arrived before I understood their source.

Everyone knows the proverb:

The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago.

The second-best time is now.

The first half can sound like regret. If only I had started sooner. If only I had known then. If only I had planted the tree, written the song, repaired the relationship, begun the book, or trusted myself twenty years ago.

But nobody talks enough about the courage required by the second half.

Planting today requires faith in something that does not yet exist.

The tree may grow slowly.

The relationship may change.

The song may never be heard.

The person who plants may never sit in the finished shade.

Still, we plant.

At midlife, I can see both sides of the proverb. There are things I wish I had planted years ago. There are seasons I cannot recover and choices I cannot remake.

But I am not finished planting.

I am planting songs.

Essays.

Friendships.

Gathering places.

A life in which creativity is not something I postpone until certainty arrives.

I do not know who may someday benefit from something I began.

That cannot be the condition of planting.

Ramona did not grow by demanding proof that her life would matter.

She became what she already was.

Rooted.

Scarred.

Expansive.

Alive.

I noticed the shade before I noticed the tree.

Now, when I sit beneath her branches, I think about the unknown person who placed her in the earth and trusted time to do the rest.

The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago.

The second-best time is now.

Ramona has been telling me all along.