As a child, I loved to climb.
We had a sycamore tree in our front yard, next to the driveway that divided our property from our neighbor's, and nearly every day after school, and on most weekends too, I would hoist myself onto the lowest branch and pull myself up into the comforting arms of that big tree, quickly shinnying up into the topmost branches where I felt safe from the terrestrial chaos. Often, the wind would cause the tree to sway and dance, and I just wrapped myself around a thick limb and rode it out. The feeling of adventure and freedom was intoxicating and profound. But, I also found total peace of mind and body there; to me, that tree was home, safe and comforting.
I could also be found on the roof of our house. Like the half-wild cats we kept, I would climb up onto the fence that separated our front and back yards and stretch my body long until I clasped the very edge of the roof, then execute a hand-gouging pull-up that would allow me to swing my leg up onto the roof. As soon as my foot touched, I'd launch my whole body upward and land on my feet. Then, I would scurry up the steep slope, enjoying the thrilling threat of sliding off, and perch myself on the spine of the roof. From the rooftop, I could see a long distance across the open fields and irrigation ditches that stretched away from our back fence and the Southern Pacific Railway tracks just a few feet beyond. The solitude was bliss.
Today, as I was walking in my neighborhood, I passed a perfect climbing tree and felt the old, familiar urge to climb it. Its trunk was sturdy, and there was a thick, inviting limb within my arm's reach. Looking around to see that no one would catch me climbing their tree, I put one foot up on the tree's trunk and wrapped my hands around the low limb, pulling upward with my weak arms until I was, almost miraculously, up in the tree, a little laugh exhaling from my body as I caught my breath. Encouraged, I reached for the next branch, climbing higher until I felt the familiar comfort of having left the world below. I sat there for a while, wondering if anyone was going to challenge me or run me off their property, but no one came and I finally settled. The day was brisk and bright, a tiny breeze stirring. Eventually, I heard the sound of Canada geese overhead and lifted my gaze, quickly counting about one hundred birds flying south in a softly-shifting formation, their bodies black against the cloudless, blue sky. Their voices and the urgent pumping of their bodies brought me to tears, which I did not resist. I felt connected to them, as though we were all part of the same sky. When the geese had disappeared into the distance, I began my descent, slowly lowering myself to the ground, all-too-aware, at 52, of the damage a hard fall could inflict.
Walking home, I thought about the child that I once was: her love of climbing and the sense of safety it conferred. I realized that back then I felt like prey, and, like the small animals that climb trees at night to avoid being eaten, I hoped to be untouchable in the treetops. But, there was something else up there, too. Solitude and the utter lack of chaos. Even then, my mind and body needed simplicity, order, and quietude. It's only now that I can recognize how I instinctively sought and achieved a source of physical and spiritual preservation, only now that I can fully appreciate how much the trees have supported me all of these years.
