Poet Trees - January Meet-Up

Part 0 - The Fool

That old familiar pull of the world on my heart. Arriving first but not for long. The storm feeling of “will others show up?” Am I enough?

I remember building my outfit that morning thinking of the deep cold - leggings and t-shirt, thick denim outer coverall jumpsuit, gloves, scarf, hat. How warm it all felt indoors, how luxurious. Did I over-extend myself? Am I thinking too hard?

Spare hats and scarves bundled in my familiar mustard backpack along with 11 empty coffee cups and lids, and two canisters of hot liquid. 11 cups and lids, an extravagance? Delusion. Or what if, maybe not enough?

Am I enough? There is being ready and there is doing the thing and they often do not exist in the same reality.

The group was almost only four, then only 5. A sixth and seventh! Later an eighth! More than enough, plenty room to grow.

When I started Teatime weekly, there were only 2 guests, then 2 guests, then 3 guests, then 5 guests, then 2 guests, then 2 guests, then 9 guests. Could have quit. Could have stamped “FAILED” on it. It ended with 20-50 neighbors showing up. Big success. Great lessons learned.

So today, we start with beautiful 8, the infinite standing upright.

Part 1 - The Magician

We gather, embrace the weather. Eventually we walk.

A few words asked for, an intro, a bit of magic to weave and I hoped my tongue would oblige. I share my own feeling; excuse the whimsy or embrace it, please. Do the thing. Play.

I am enough.

Now, head full of me and you and everyone, I walk. I walk and walk, stomping in snow. I try to hear it, the snow, and see it, the snow, but I am still conscious of everyone. I make some space to transform, from leader to participator. To see the trees, if not anything else.

It is a short while that feels long, but I am there, in the special place where creation can happen.

Creativity needs space, a container where you put yourself in order to be free, apart, separate.

I am there, and I see the trees. I almost see the snow. Just so.

I am transformed.

Part 2 - The High Priestess

The time of intuition comes now, for I am seeking a muse.

The first tree I see looks small and dying. I joke to myself against getting attached. Oh it would be just like you.

I get attached. 

We go around and around each other. I see your grapple hook and hurt from the look of it, but then make it earring.

I see your fungus skin, your flesh wounds, your scratch scars, your lost limbs, and I make it life. I see your home, all around a circle grove of others, tall and caring, Mothers, it felt like, maybe. 

You are protected, little tree. Little tree. Crannín. Beloved.

Oh dear. I think you are mine.

Part 2 - The Empress

Now you are mine, let me care for you. Caring means learning. Looking. Let’s see the world through your eyes, Crannín. Crown-een. Like the diamond in the center of the crown. All these great mother trees around. I see them, your mothers, Crannín. They are so beautiful.

I start with one direction, then the other. Stare at each, a few minutes long. What can I say? I am nothing if not deliberate. I want to see. 

I feel a deep sense of caring of this tree already. Are you dying, love? Are you gone already, a stór. My pet. My petal. I fear I get attached to the wrong things but wouldn’t dream of leaving you now. There are signs of life (old fall leaves, and seeds) but you are small, Crannín. When I look around at the mother trees, they are so full of life and so beautiful, wouldn’t I be better served?

But I am one who wants to make peace with death. And if this year of return should some month find you gone, I wish to know it.

And wouldn’t it be an honour to miss you. 

And what kind of life can a broken one make, with no hope of longevity and barely a few leaves, a few seasons left? A fine one.

To watch all these mothers grow. To watch the birds play their swooping games. To see the visit of squirrels and chase. To be the centre. To feel a mothers love, a grandmothers wisdom. A fine life, Crannín.

And what of my arborist skills? Who am I to think I know a tree when I see one, and what do I know of death? There lies folly. I am not one to believe in nothing. Everything is something, isn’t it?

And so thoughts turned to love in an instance.

Unexpectedly. I am here, Crannín, for the long haul.

Part 3 - The Emperor

Alright, decision decided, is that enough?

Momentary stepping out of the circle, forgetting the trees and the snow.

Where are my people?

Are they doing ok?

Should I be finding them?

Is it time?

It is hard to be the facilitator and the participator.

I try. Take turns.

Part 4 - The Hierophant

Locking back in, because I remember that I have work to do. The time isn’t up. I have time. I am enough.

I wrote a post yesterday “tips to finding a tree as muse”. Now was my turn to be human. So I shared a secret. He took it well. I told a joke. The only joke I know,

Did you hear about the magic tractor?

It went down the road and turned into a field.

The only joke I know, cue laughter from all around - ha ha ha. 

I talked a little Gaeilge to him. The little I know he liked.

I watched the birds across on the bird-mother. I saw the knots on the face of the grand-mother.

I wondered if I chose my tree but secretly chose it in order to choose a dozen trees. I return to Crannín and walk a circle round and round and round him. Her. Them. It. again.

Part 5 - The Lovers

It’s nearly time to leave.

I put my head against him.

I put my head against him like his head was there.

We knock crowns.

We slow time down.

Smiles as goodbye, for now.

Part 6 - The Chariot

To leave, I move with purpose towards the people (humans) in the car and join them.

Now we return to earth, and tell our stories.

Now we are two-legged again.

We travel to warmth and words and coffee.

We share what we felt and did and saw and who we are. There are plates of food and drinks and muddles to make and cream to pour and laughs to listen to and voices to learn and bits to share and swallow. The fire is lit inside us.

I am tired and happy. Cold warmed up. Words begin to fail. 

We make our leave.

Soft sweet goodbyes.

Then we go home.