“When
I Am Among Trees”
A
Witness of Classic Photography
By
John Holliger
The persimmon and witch hazel trees were
planted before I was born. By my
early teens I had been going along with my Dad as he “took a walk around the
yard” after a day’s work, as Mom prepared supper.
The persimmon tree was rarely known or even
joyfully eaten in our parts. The
witch hazel was twisted back and around so much that I’d given up following one
branch bending back upon itself and through the loops of her siblings.
The story I love to tell the most about our
“walk around the yard,” is about the family of rabbits who didn’t move when we
approached them under the white peach tree. They looked up and some fell over, too
dizzy to move. The others took a
few steps and collapsed. They were
drunk from the old, fallen white
peaches.
Years later after my Dad had died with a
broken heart, following the death of my twenty one year old sister, I learned
how his “walk around the yard” (1/2 acre) began. Having already struggled to recover
from polio as a young man, there were days when my Dad would wake up, lost in
his own interior dark wood. When
my mother saw this she handed my Dad something that slowly brought him back to
us: the Wayside Gardens
catalog. And he would pour over
the pages looking for exotic trees that had a chance to survive in northern
Ohio. Then came the days of
anticipation and reading again about the trees that were on their way to
him. And so began his
contented “walk around the yard,” touching and gazing with great care and
affection each tree, their branches and leaves and fruit.
I imagine him becoming one with them, and they with him.
These lines by Mary Oliver described my
dad’s “walk around the yard.”
“When I am among the trees,
especially the
willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me,
and daily.”
“…the trees stir in their leaves
and call
out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.
And they call
again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to
do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."
When I Am Among the Trees" by Mary Oliver, from
Thirst. © Beacon Press, 2006.
My dad was a photographer
of tiny, fragile biologies like mosses and lichens, something that suited a
quiet, gentle spirit. He joined a
botanical society of university professors who took yearly hikes among the
trees. He brought back exceptional
photographs in the l940’s and l950’s
of the beauty of the tiny lives that lived under the protection of the
trees, who were always filled with
light.
Years later when I found
myself lost in my own interior dark wood, I too walked among the trees, the only
plant species that lived upright like me.
I carried my cameras as an outward explanation for walking among my
brothers, but now no longer with my Dad.
Then one day I saw him,
hiking a narrow ridge at the top of the Cataloochee in the Smokey
Mountains. “Cataloochee” is a
Cherokee word meaning, “those who walk upright.” I could see clearly between each tree at
the top of a narrow ridge, and between them, my Dad, a Cataloochee, one who
walks upright.
On one of these hikes when
I was lost in my interior darkness, the Loving Mystery who embraces and gently
holds all things, stopped me in my tracks. I was given this sense of Presence all
around me. The Light of my
Cataloochee brothers was vivid and vibrating, as if each were a silently singing
tuning fork. What I heard was the
soft singing of leaves.
I can get lost and stuck in
trying to change what cannot be changed.
But when I “walk around the yard,” the trees call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, "It's
simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go
easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."
Not long ago I read in one of Wendell Berry’s
essays about a man in Kentucky. He
drove his F150 truck into the woods after work. He got out and sat on the open tailgate
for a long time. The trees for him
as well, were filled with Light.
But one day he drove into the woods and came to a road closed sign.
Getting out and peering down the road, he was
stunned by what he saw. The entire
mountain of trees that had filled him with Light… was gone,
removed by a coal company.
The owner lived thousands of miles away, never having seen what he had
ordered removed with his simple signature.
If I knew where the man lived in Kentucky, I
would go to his home where his F150 sits.
I’d knock on the door with my thermos of hot coffee, and together we
would weep.
I Am Among Trees”
A
Witness of Classic Photography
By
John Holliger
The persimmon and witch hazel trees were
planted before I was born. By my
early teens I had been going along with my Dad as he “took a walk around the
yard” after a day’s work, as Mom prepared supper.
The persimmon tree was rarely known or even
joyfully eaten in our parts. The
witch hazel was twisted back and around so much that I’d given up following one
branch bending back upon itself and through the loops of her siblings.
The story I love to tell the most about our
“walk around the yard,” is about the family of rabbits who didn’t move when we
approached them under the white peach tree. They looked up and some fell over, too
dizzy to move. The others took a
few steps and collapsed. They were
drunk from the old, fallen white
peaches.
Years later after my Dad had died with a
broken heart, following the death of my twenty one year old sister, I learned
how his “walk around the yard” (1/2 acre) began. Having already struggled to recover
from polio as a young man, there were days when my Dad would wake up, lost in
his own interior dark wood. When
my mother saw this she handed my Dad something that slowly brought him back to
us: the Wayside Gardens
catalog. And he would pour over
the pages looking for exotic trees that had a chance to survive in northern
Ohio. Then came the days of
anticipation and reading again about the trees that were on their way to
him. And so began his
contented “walk around the yard,” touching and gazing with great care and
affection each tree, their branches and leaves and fruit.
I imagine him becoming one with them, and they with him.
These lines by Mary Oliver described my
dad’s “walk around the yard.”
“When I am among the trees,
especially the
willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me,
and daily.”
“…the trees stir in their leaves
and call
out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.
And they call
again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to
do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."
When I Am Among the Trees" by Mary Oliver, from
Thirst. © Beacon Press, 2006.
My dad was a photographer
of tiny, fragile biologies like mosses and lichens, something that suited a
quiet, gentle spirit. He joined a
botanical society of university professors who took yearly hikes among the
trees. He brought back exceptional
photographs in the l940’s and l950’s
of the beauty of the tiny lives that lived under the protection of the
trees, who were always filled with
light.
Years later when I found
myself lost in my own interior dark wood, I too walked among the trees, the only
plant species that lived upright like me.
I carried my cameras as an outward explanation for walking among my
brothers, but now no longer with my Dad.
Then one day I saw him,
hiking a narrow ridge at the top of the Cataloochee in the Smokey
Mountains. “Cataloochee” is a
Cherokee word meaning, “those who walk upright.” I could see clearly between each tree at
the top of a narrow ridge, and between them, my Dad, a Cataloochee, one who
walks upright.
On one of these hikes when
I was lost in my interior darkness, the Loving Mystery who embraces and gently
holds all things, stopped me in my tracks. I was given this sense of Presence all
around me. The Light of my
Cataloochee brothers was vivid and vibrating, as if each were a silently singing
tuning fork. What I heard was the
soft singing of leaves.
I can get lost and stuck in
trying to change what cannot be changed.
But when I “walk around the yard,” the trees call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, "It's
simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go
easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."
Not long ago I read in one of Wendell Berry’s
essays about a man in Kentucky. He
drove his F150 truck into the woods after work. He got out and sat on the open tailgate
for a long time. The trees for him
as well, were filled with Light.
But one day he drove into the woods and came to a road closed sign.
Getting out and peering down the road, he was
stunned by what he saw. The entire
mountain of trees that had filled him with Light… was gone,
removed by a coal company.
The owner lived thousands of miles away, never having seen what he had
ordered removed with his simple signature.
If I knew where the man lived in Kentucky, I
would go to his home where his F150 sits.
I’d knock on the door with my thermos of hot coffee, and together we
would weep.
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