When my husband and I longed for peace, we retreated to what we called The Church of the Trees.
Camping was our refuge from the chaos of city life, our escape from the demands of rigorous courses or work. In nature, we found we could completely unwind, just settling into the heartbeat of the Earth.
In this year when constancy is elusive, I seek solace in the garden, nestled in my own wooden chair.
Built for my birthday in 2005, its construction served two purposes. The project was something our 15-year-old son Tyler could do with his dad. And not only could I enjoy the memory of their working together, but their creation would be the chair from my growing up years.
Perfectly welcoming for any age, my periwinkle-hued Adirondack chair is now the favorite for our granddaughter Scarlett, too.
From my colorful perch, I meditate. Sometimes I cry. And I embrace the comfort of nature.
Three river birches branch in sturdy patterns above my head, their leaves dancing and fluttering in the slightest breeze. Come evening, I solicit their shelter as darkness falls. Silhouettes emerge against darkening skies, the trunks’ standing strong before me. Stalwart, when all else goes awry.
The birches’ companions, specimen trees, I selected to celebrate the individuals they are. Spindly and a bit silly at first, as they have matured, I conclude that anything less unique would disappoint in its lack of inspiration.
The weeping conifer speaks to me of the human condition, alternately forlorn and optimistic, while the tricolor beech colorfully evolves along with the seasons .
From my Adirondack chair’s embrace, I release my worries to these confidants of needle and leaf. Instead I pray—that they, like us, may stand secure, despite facing tempestuous storms.
The garden. The chair. And the trees. Sunlight dappling. Rain drenching. Wind whistling. Snow swirling.
Their sameness, not boring, is a comfort through life’s eruptions.
Sunnier days will come. (c)
