If I have a happy place, or melancholy place, or sometimes an indifferent place it is found in the Big Meadows of Virginia’s Shenandoah National Park where one of the most southern, disjunct, gray birch tree resides. I have been visiting this tree intimately for many years and it is very special.
Superficially many images are an admiration of the trees form, which is done by design.
The only person who knows how much I adore this tree is perhaps my wife.
It is this place, with this tree, where I study the seasons, reflect on the past and contemplate the present moment.
Life for me can be contradictory here with no prejudice. Sometimes whimsical, sometimes analytical; but always something. I have brought only a few to the tree, like my brother.
However with the popularity of public lands, I like to think of this tree as “my tree,” which is the biggest contradiction of all.
Of course I do not own this stoic birch, but I have a paternal instinct towards it; though I know its years are far greater than mine.
When I see fresh carvings on its bark, always during the busy season, I admit it makes me angry to see this desecration.
I’ve shared moments of great joy in front of this tree. The jitters a week before my wedding, defending my master’s thesis, and after learning my wife was pregnant.
But also moments of grief stemming from death and loss, and the crucial pain that inspires me to create.
My high school no longer exists; it is now an apartment complex. The tree is where I go to “roam the halls.” My classmates? The deer and the songbird.
The tree reminds me that time is always moving forward, and to appreciate the fleeting moments.
And as every winter eventually makes way to spring, these changes also reflect on the purpose of my work. The tree has been a friend, my confidant, my time capsule, and always reminds me that there are amazing things on this planet. Such as trees of the north having disjunct populations in the central Appalachians.
Now my daughter can experience that too.
