{"id":4918,"date":"2013-11-02T00:06:40","date_gmt":"2013-11-02T05:06:40","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.silkentent.com\/Trees\/?p=4918"},"modified":"2013-12-30T00:21:09","modified_gmt":"2013-12-30T05:21:09","slug":"all-those-leaves-breathing-the-air","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.silkentent.com\/Trees\/?p=4918","title":{"rendered":"All Those Leaves Breathing the Air"},"content":{"rendered":"

November 2, 2013<\/strong><\/span>
\n Saturda<\/strong>y<\/span><\/p>\n

I have lost as you and <\/em><\/span>
\n others have possibly lost a<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

beloved one, <\/em><\/span>
\n and wonder, where are they now?<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

The trees, anyway, are <\/em><\/span>
\n miraculous, full of <\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

angels (ideas); even <\/em><\/span>
\n empty they are a<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

good place to look, to put <\/em><\/span>
\n the heart at rest\u00e2\u20ac\u201dall those<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

leaves breathing the air, so<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

peaceful and diligent, and certainly <\/em><\/span>
\n ready to be<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

the resting place of <\/em><\/span>
\n strange, winged creatures<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

that we, in this world, have loved.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u201d Mary Oliver, b. 1935, American poet<\/span>
\n from \u00e2\u20ac\u0153About Angels and About Trees\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/span><\/p>\n

\"073\"<\/span><\/a><\/span><\/p>\n

Three Trees in Autumn<\/span>
\n Italian Lake, 4th and Division Streets<\/span>
\n Harrisburg, Pennsylvania<\/span><\/p>\n

\"NaBloPoMo<\/span><\/a><\/span><\/p>\n

I am fascinated by trees, drawn to their shapes, their colors, their textures. This blog was once called “The Gestures of Trees,” and I had thoughts of pursuing a deal to go “blog to book,” creating The Gestures of Trees: A Suburban Year<\/em>. The word “Trees” survives in the path name for these blog posts, but the idea has been put so far down my list of Things To Write that I should probably consider it abandoned.<\/span><\/p>\n

I drove around today looking at trees. We’re in that brief period in central Pennsylvania when the trees, particularly the maples, are, as Mary Oliver puts it in another poem,<\/span><\/p>\n

turning<\/em><\/span>
\n their own bodies<\/em><\/span>
\n into pillars<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

of light,<\/em><\/span>
\n are giving off the rich<\/em><\/span>
\n fragrance of cinnamon<\/em><\/span>
\n and fulfillment, . . .<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/em>My last stop was at the lake at the edge of the city where I was captivated by the three trees seen above and their reflection in the water. The tree in the center is still mostly a late summer green, but its top has begun to turn scarlet. The lake and its surrounding park are a few blocks from the neighborhood where I lived from the time I was seven until I was fifteen. The community college I attended was housed then in buildings just two streets west of these trees. In the late winter of 1967 I sometimes ice skated on the lake early in the morning, accompanied by a boyfriend. Afterward we went to his house, where his mother had lunch ready for us, and then we’d go to class. It is a memory I often savor, though the relationship wasn’t serious and I never saw him again after graduation.<\/span><\/p>\n

I sat on a bench for a while this evening, and then I went to church. Tomorrow is All Saints’ Sunday in the Lutheran calendar, and my congregation offers\u00c2\u00a0 a quiet and meditative vigil service, with a slide presentation featuring all our members who have died since last November. There are four this year, including Betty Burd, a woman who was part of my Thursday morning spiritual study group and whom I miss terribly.<\/span><\/p>\n

The novel I am working on has as its central theme the question Mary Oliver asks: our beloved ones, where are they now? Betty’s granddaughters sang during the offertory tonight: I’ll be in every beat of your heart when you face the unknown. Wherever you fly, this isn’t goodbye, my love will follow you, stay with you, baby, you’re never alone.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

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