Blab fest

A little part of this writing is accomplished by doing one of my favorite activities: talking to friends on the phone. Verbalizing my celebrations and setbacks with trusted people is vital. Anyone who knows me is well aware that I am loquacious. Continually striving to be a better listener, I do love a good chat on all levels: light and heavy.

Typically, at least one of my friends hears about my tree jaunts and I marvel at how effortlessly the story flows, recalling the essence of the moment. Speaking it, somehow the whole thing is easily distilled, and I instinctively know the order of detail, what to include and what to leave out. 

Of course, there are no stakes in a phone conversation and no record of the interaction. I’m free to blurt things and they sound fine because they’re generally lost to memory. Even if my dear friend is pretending to listen or truly bored, I still receive the therapeutic act of saying aloud what happened. 

It is not infrequently that I hear myself telling the story and figure out a way to put pen to paper. It sounds obvious to write the way I would tell it, but it is much easier said than done. Writer David Foster Wallace insisted on at least five drafts, which I found comforting to learn. His genius was not effortless. 

Writing is an altogether different synapse path within my brain that drags out that storytelling process. Dumping the story in long hand into my journal, I gather my internal thoughts, sifting through the few that might be interesting and ignore the ones that say: THIS ALL SUCKS. Just give up!

Envisioning revisiting

Since finding the Houston Campsite Oak in December, when it was leafless, I’ve meant to see it again. Envisioning another visit to nearby Coppell as things began to leaf out in spring, I was immobilized when covid hit and it didn’t really cross my mind. The landscaping industry was deemed essential in Texas from the beginning of our statewide shutdown, so I never actually quarantined, but for a while, going places seemed like a bad idea.

Struggling with completing my first post about this tree, I hoped maybe seeing it again would help me figure out what I wanted to say. Still sweaty in my work clothes after a pretty day in the mid 80s, I took off during the lighter pandemic traffic.

This particular tree is significant, not just for its impressive size. It commemorates an interesting moment in Texas history - a moment of striving for peace and coexistence, an attempt to come together and compromise. This gigantic post oak is the most beautiful of the Famous Trees of Texas that I’ve seen, so I wanted to do it justice. 

Arriving in Coppell, I happened upon a retail complex near the park that one might call cute. Texas reopened sooner than most states, but it seemed like forever since I had been anywhere besides the grocery store. The wide open doors of one place caught my eye, so I stopped and put on a mask, knowing there was plenty of daylight left to see the oak.

A literal Mom & Pop business, the store is a clean and calm environment that was once a small post office, now with a mix of jewelry, cards, maps, ceramics, soaps, bits of nature and items with catch phrases: This actually is my first rodeo.

Chatting with the husband and wife owners as I collected a few trinkets, I mentioned that I was on my way to visit the oak only steps away from this store. I was pleased that they knew exactly what I was talking about.

“My daughter was married under that tree!” she said.

“You must come take a look at OUR tree.” She led me out back to show me a very large, interestingly weathered old post oak (Quercus stellata) between the store and the home where they lived. Large scars showed where numerous limbs had been cut some years ago, which made it a bit lopsided, but nonetheless grand. I thanked them and headed over to the park with my new loot. 

The community veggie garden near the parking lot was filled with ripening tomatoes and peppers instead of the kale and broccoli I had seen in December, and of course the June weather was distinctly different. Young graduates in caps and gowns took photos of each other near a fountain as I walked down the path. 

There it was. WOW.

Seeing this enormous oak full of leaves was an entirely different experience. Equally if not more breathtaking than before, the canopy created a giant umbrella effect that wasn’t possible in winter. I whipped out my phone to take a video of my initial reaction. 

To stand under something so gigantic and obviously alive hits me somewhere deep. To witness the magnificence of a very old living thing is thrilling. I call this: exultation. Though it’s never guaranteed, it is a powerful motivator that nudges me to continue. 

When I spoke to my friend about this she thought of part of a quote by author Anne Lamott. Reverence can be a prayer? Rage can be a prayer. Something like that. I googled this phrase with Lamott’s name and learned about her book called Help Thanks Wow: The Three Essential Prayers.

Though my mother insisted we attend church every Sunday throughout my childhood, I am not religious. I believe that prayer is personal and private. I love this generously candid look into her mind. I have felt exultation in a cathedral, while singing, as well as standing in front of a painting in a museum, but I can just about count on trees to lift me out of my everyday life.

The leaves were so lustrous and shiny. I remembered the brittle, dead leaves I had photographed on the ground last time. A comforting familiarity and fondness washed over me witnessing something meaningful that I had seen before.

Mom & Pop told me they had the reception in the civic space in the park, which is surrounded by a little garden. I don’t have many romantic illusions left about weddings, and it’s been a good while since I was in a serious relationship, but I felt a tiny uptick of hope somehow hearing about connecting a ceremony to this astounding living witness.

I wandered a little way down a woodsy path that I hadn’t explored before, thinking I might see the graffiti wall from a different viewpoint, but it felt dark and uncomfortable. There were mosquitoes and poison ivy everywhere so I turned back and walked toward the open space that overlooked the creek again noting the leafy difference in the seasons. I took a few more shots and felt ready to go. 

You’re doing it wrong

My typical visits are under 30 minutes. Some are quicker and it always feels like I’m not doing it right. Almost every time I experience a weird feeling of guilt when leaving - like it’s not enough. I’m not sure what I think I’m supposed to do —camp out under it and sign a peace treaty? Maybe so.

None of the above

Feeling disheartened after the initial spurt of awe, I left the park and mentally returned to the overall sense of looming uncertainty that pervades almost everything during this pandemic. It hadn’t helped at all to revisit this tree. 

Driving home along a network of highways, I did not feel a sense of accomplishment. I did not have the answers I was seeking. Taking off on a little adventure felt good for a moment, but what had I gained? I yearned for inspiration and I wanted help with the previous post I was wrestling with. I loved seeing the beautiful, stately, important, valuable, awe-inspiring, exalting tree, but I immediately felt pressure, however self imposed: Instead of the new visit contributing perspective to the other one, I now had to distill THIS experience too.

Digging into this project with only the most vague notion of what I was doing, I discovered there was more to it than I initially thought. This led to much second guessing and hand wringing about what the whole thing is about and what I am about. Am I a photographer? A writer? A historian? 

None of the above?

As I move along, each time before I start I’ve been cracking open the book my friend gave me in Austin. The first time I ever heard of The War of Art, a line used in my post about Seider’s Oaks, was from some internet article, talking about self doubt being an indicator. The pull-quote I initially found left out the last two sentences of that short passage: The counterfeit innovator is wildly self-confident. The real one is scared to death.

Why silk flowers are uninspiring

While working at a garden center, I was often annoyed by a repeated customer question just as winter came to an end: will these bloom all summer? Of course, I understand wanting bang for your buck, but constant bloom is overrated.

Much of the charm of gardens and nature is change. If a plant were to statically hold blossoms year round, we would fail to see them after a time. Crape myrtles (Lagerstroemia indica) feature in nearly every single landscape in the Dallas area and they are lovely when they first begin to flower. Within their long bloom period, you lose sight of them. They become invisible. Much of the delight lies within their ephemeral nature. 

Standing before this oak full of lush green growth, in contrast to its winter form, was uplifting, at least for a moment. We need to see the world change so that we know it’s alive. We need to internalize the proof that this too shall pass.

Reverence and exultation = Wow… which leads me to give Thanks… and the reason I began this whole thing was the answer to the prayer: Help.