Final

Austin W. 17/2/10 The Healing Properties of Nature Tranquility. The silence is deafening. I sit in the tree to think, to relive my past. The wind on my face. A place of peace and calm, a place to relax and think. The smell that forebodes rain. The taste of freedom, lingering on the tongue. The tree is a haven, a fortress, a refuge. Pondering, I sit—this is a place to think and to remember. Is it the peace, or the acceptance that brings people here? Like so many ants to an apple. Perhaps it is the silent friendliness of Nature. The Tree is a retreat, hidden from the problems of the world, a place to run from stress. It’s a patient place, listening to you and never interrupting. A place that does not judge, a friend that is always on your side. The one who will never betray you. This place is the all-seeing, the understanding, the empathetic. And yet it cannot feel, see or touch. It does not think. But sometimes that that cannot show emotion reveals the most. Beauty. It comes from the peace. Everything looks so still and quiet—This is not the reality. Animals everywhere, busy, but in no hurry. There is a squirrel on the fence to my left. He is jet black, eyeing me to determine if I am a threat. I stare back, he turns and climbs the nearest tree. I hear a noise and look down. The soft hum of a hummingbird. He flits to and from, eventually hovering over the food, placed there for him. He drinks for but a moment, before he is off. From all directions comes the happy chirping of the birds. There are red ones, blue ones, yellow ones and black ones. They all get along racing each other through the sky and surveying the land happily. They swarm to the bird feeders, placed on another tree to my left. They all are so carefree and content. There are crabapple trees to my right, four in a perfect line. Ivy grows on the walls behind and next to them. A lemon bush grows across a small clearing of grass from them. It brings back from the time I picked lemons to make lemonade, but when I squeezed out the juice, the cuts from getting the lemons off the bush stung. The small potted plants next to it bring back memories of the time we played ping pong and lost countless balls in them, especially the cactus. As I look further left there are the hanging plants that my grandfather takes so much pride in, he would wake up at obscene hours in the morning to water and fertilize them. As I look all the way to the left there is a jungle of bushes and trees creating a tunnel all the way up to the tree I am sitting in. Behind me over the fence is the creek; the one my mother fell into as a child and chipped her tooth. Silence again. As I refocus, I realize that the silence is never really silence, just one becomes so used to the sounds of an area, they forget they are there. The blades of grass shift in the wind. The jingle of wind chimes is audible. The sun has gone behind a cloud, it is not a storm cloud and everything is still bright, even in the shadow. It is a peaceful calm. Very opposite than what the coming storm may bring. Quiet and peace before a loud and wild storm. The world is one of opposites and contradictions, the lemons hurting what you got by obtaining them, the silence being noise, the calm before the storm. I sit, observing both plants and animals, as some of them watch me back. Some are afraid, others as curious as I am. Are they thinking like I am? Do they enjoy this area the same way I do? I remember the place fondly, I have done some of my best, and alarming thinking here. This is where I can plan for what is to come and wrestle with the thoughts that have been begging for an opportunity to speak. It is a place where I can withdraw from reality, but it’s always there when I’m ready to go back. Sometimes I am afraid to come here, when I know what I might think of. I have to think of trivial subjects to dodge thinking about the inevitable. Eventually it will happen, it is as sure as the sun rising each morning. I always leave the Tree more confident, more prepared than before. I can collect myself and put all that is me into one being that I know is one-hundred-percent me and nothing else. I have celebrated new life here; I have grieved over death here. It has seen the extremes, as well as the temperate. Here my only critic is myself. I can be harsh some days, but in the end all thoughts that come from myself, and myself only make it through the critique. I do not always go alone. Sometimes family is present, though we do not share our thoughts much. I enjoy tapping into the imagination of the young children when we come to the Tree. It is wild, creative and inspiring. If only our world could be as sincere and innocent as a child. I remember one time my cousin got stuck and we had to help her down. I think to some degree this is how life should be lived. You should go for something, reaching higher and higher, giving it your best effort. If you become stuck, you can rely on your family and friends to help you out, and soon you can begin your journey again. Life should be fearless. It controls too much of whom we are. The dog looks up at me, I descend the tree. He brings me a toy, I steal it and throw it. He chases it, elated to be receiving attention. We repeat this process until my arm becomes tired of wrestling to rope out of his mouth. We look at each other, eyes filled with joy. I think to myself, what if I could live like this all the time, no deadlines, outside of reality, outside of time. I ascend the tree again, this time only half my original climb, and survey the scene. Not much has changed, the sky is starting to turn a bright orange color. I am done thinking for now, I submit to the call of reality and return. I know that whenever I need to stop time, I have a place I can do it at.