Kami Booth

The Tree Around the Corner and Down the Street

Most days, the Tree Around the Corner and Down the Street is nothing spectacular. It stands at the edge of a typical suburban yard near a typical suburban ranch house that has seen a few owners over the course of my 20-plus-year residency in my subdivision. The tree is of average height and width for its kind. Its trunk and branches are a common brownish gray. The tree bears no flowers or fruit, nor harbors any animals other than the occasional sparrow or squirrel that might find it suitable for a momentary rest. Throughout most of the year, this unassuming tree is passed by a walker, jogger, bicyclist or driver without a second glance.

Until early August.

For it is then, amongst the first sights and sounds of the returning school buses, that The Tree Around the Corner and Down the Street turns bold. It becomes the first tree in the neighborhood to change color – not by a mere few days but by many weeks. For those who are blessed to witness it, like the return of the robin signaling  the approach of spring, this rogue and fearless action by this otherwise unpretentious tree serves as a visual announcement of the transition toward autumn.

Each year when this event occurs, seemingly overnight, I pause in my comings and goings to take in the blaze of red, orange and yellow patches beginning to form in the midst of the tree’s greenery. This is both a joyous and sobering occasion for me. On one hand, I feel a sense of excitement at the return of familiar schedules and routines, cozy sweaters and boots, and the approach of some of my favorite fall holidays and traditions. On the other hand, I am saddened by the ending of summer and all of its welcomed sunshine, warmth, unhurried freedoms and outdoor adventures.

Even more so, The Tree Around the Corner and Down the Street has made me deeply aware of the passage of time, the sense of another year lived and the changes -both good and bad – that have come with that living. That awareness, in turn, leads me to ponder important life questions: Am I living well? Am I living as my truest self on my truest path? Am I living boldly?

Perhaps these answers, too, can be found in the story of The Tree Around the Corner and Down the Street.

What causes this ordinary tree to become extraordinary – at least to our human eyes – even for just a short period of time each year? It grows from the same soil, receives the same sunlight, is watered by the same rains and braces against the same winds as the other deciduous neighborhood trees. Yet in early August, while those other trees grip firmly to their greenness, The Tree Around the Corner and Down the Street bravely lets go…of what is comfortably familiar and what is expected of it.

By turning to science, we discover that this phenomena isn’t a sappy (no tree pun intended) sentimental tale but rather a solid story of greatness being born from adversity. Tree leaves begin to change color because of a lack of chlorophyll, a plant pigment responsible for the absorption of light. As the days get shorter and cooler, less sunlight means less chlorophyll production, hence the changing color and eventual dropping of leaves. However, a tree may also stop producing chlorophyll if it perceives a threat to its well-being, such as insects, disease, nutritional deficiencies or damage to its roots. Biologists say that a tree’s unusually early color change is a defense mechanism that allows the stressed out tree to try to save itself. 

Indeed, contrary to what one might first believe, the Tree Around the Corner and Down the Street isn’t stronger than the other trees around it. It’s actually weaker, plagued by difficulties not necessarily visible to the untrained eye.  But in that weakness, there is still room for beauty and hope for growth and renewal.

This special tree teaches us that living boldly and beautifully does not mean living with an absence of problems but rather persevering in spite of them. Instinctually, it knows what to do to try to heal itself, even if those actions do not conform to a traditional timetable. For much longer than its still-green counterparts, The Tree Around the Corner and Down the Street is willing to stand alone, stark and leafless in the dark and colder days to come, because it knows its journey is different than the others.

A dear friend of mine whom I have not communicated with in a while recently messaged me. After sharing sentiments about my children and her new grandbabies, she concluded with soft words that reached straight into my heart: “Be well and please write more in the new year. Your words are a gift.”

What a gigantic wake up call, coming in the subtlest form like an ever-so-light tap on the shoulder, a casual but impactful “by the way...”

It’s been 15 months since I’ve written a blog. For years, I wrote much more regularly, usually every few months. The process was cathartic for me and, hopefully, the writings at least somewhat thought-provoking or entertaining to readers. I could give plenty of excuses for not putting pen to paper as of late: I have been growing my piano studio, teaching many more students. My weekends have been filled with college kid activities. I spent a good portion of this summer helping a loved one find a new home, which was not an easy feat in such a competitive housing market. These reasons for being lax to blog are all valid...and yet all garbage. Because if I’m honest with myself, the truth is much deeper. I have fallen so far into the trap of knuckling down just to get through my harder days (which have been more frequent lately) that I have forgotten the importance of the softer way of managing the downs of life: release, renewal and reflection. For me, these three R’s have always been achieved most effectively in the form of creative expression through music making and writing.

So I say to you, dear readers, as well as to myself, “Hello again.” And then, a gentle question: “Are you being soft with yourself and with others?” This query is pertinent any time of year, but particularly so around the holiday season, which can be an emotional minefield if all is not well within one’s soul. Grief, family conflicts, chronic illness, financial woes - they feel even heavier this time of year. Our stories vary, and how we process and respond to them may be different as well. Judgement is hard. Acceptance is soft. Be soft.

Speaking of grief, there is a young lady who, through her own gift of introspective writing, has greatly impacted me this year. Her chronicles of her own hardship have helped to reaffirm my life-long commitment to authentic, kind, conscious living. Maybe they too were a calling for me to return to writing. We don’t know each other personally, but I knew her father. He was a big, tall, tough looking man who worked in the healthcare industry and racked up awards in ironman competitions. His soft, caring heart, however, was even larger than his presence or the weights he lifted. It was why people gravitated to him. In the tortuous months leading up to his death this fall from an aggressive brain tumor, his daughter would occasionally post her insights on the website her family used to give updates on his health journey. I was continuously drawn to and inspired by her words, not because of the strength she demonstrated in the face of such tragedy - which was undeniably admirable - but because of her sincere honesty and vulnerability. Her softness was powerful.

Indeed, oftentimes the staunchly determined rally cries of “We will get through this!” aren’t heard as clearly and accepted as easily as the unsteady, candid whispers of “I don’t know how,” “I’m scared,” and “This feels like too much to bear.”

I, too, lost a father this year. My beloved stepdad passed away in November from cancer. There were other losses. I lost a friendship that was more important to me that even I care to admit. I lost hope that good conquers evil. After a series of disappointments, I lost some of my positivity and faith. And at times I feel like all of this loss is making me lose myself.

After some reflection, though, I am starting to realize that loss was never the perpetrator. It was how I was responding to loss that has been doing me in. My ruthless industriousness has been an ideal way to keep the pain at bay. My occasional dissociation has felt like the perfect answer to preventing a panic attack. My vigilant care of others has become a welcome distraction. Instead of mourning my disappointments, I have been fueling myself with anger and resentment. Admittedly, I have been getting a tad bit harder hearted because that has kept my sad thoughts and anxious feelings more under control. Mistakenly I began to believe this was a healthier path.

But as a wise person once told me, grief is like an old man in a rocking chair. It's in no hurry. It will peer around its newspaper now and then and ask if you are ready to experience it. Not yet? No problem. It will wait. Keep busy. Keep that shield of hardness. Keep telling everyone you are okay. Then one day, when you least expect it, grief will visit. It must visit.

Grief visited today. I got sad and quiet. I got soft. After the tears fell, I felt a tiny bit better...more like myself. Maybe, just maybe, grief and I will have more of these gatherings. After all, grief is wise. Grief has lessons to teach. Grief knows that pain, denial, disillusionment and anger will either kill something or educate you on where the real work needs to be done. The choice is always ours. Let us be brave enough to choose to learn. Let us be brave enough to choose to feel it all - the good and the bad - but to keep our hearts open. Most of all, let us choose to sleep soundly knowing that there is a God who recognizes our deepest needs and will lead us to their fulfillment, sometimes in the most unexpected ways...like a casual message from a friend.

It is bedtime now. I welcome the routine where one of my cats will visit me after I climb into bed and shut off the lights. He will curl up with his back next to my chest as I lay on my side in the darkness, him in the crook of my arm, the little spoon to my bigger spoon. He will be sweet. He will be warm. He will be fuzzy. But most importantly, he will be soft.