When I was a boy, we had an old birch tree in our front yard. It would stand there with its papery bark peeling away and low-splitting trunks begging to be climbed on. I don’t know why I was so drawn into its branches, but it was an uncontrolled impulse I was too young to understand. I would slip my feet into the tight intersections of branches as I thoughtfully grasped hand over hand. It was instinctual, undoing the actions of some ancient relative who originally climbed down from the trees and began walking upright.
I would climb up the old birch tree and let it cradle me out of the reach of those below on the distant ground. In this case, “distant” couldn’t have been more than four feet below, but, still, I was separate, set apart, protected in its branches.
We’re drawn to trees not because they are a part of us, but because we belong to them. They are a part of our daily comfort and aesthetic, our shade and even our traditions. But, even more so, we are drawn to their prehistoric, symbiotic imprint on us. They are part of what makes us who we are and are also why we still are. They are part of our shared history, our protection, our comfort and are our nurturer. We are drawn back to the trees because they're where we are from and the last remaining connection to our roots.
