The Woman who Carried the Tree

She carried a tree in her arms. Wisps of thin white hair fell from a faded black bandana. Her skin shone over beautiful cheek-bones. It was translucent and rosy. A spray of fine lines exploded and extended from the corners of her clear blue eyes. Pea-green boots hit the road in confident stride. Her authority and experience guided her briskly passing the 'Stop and Go' bodega without a glance. Shiny objects and loud people had never diverted her from a mission she chose. And she chose this mission. Her age appeared a healthy 70 to early 80 years old.

The 7' fruit tree she carried, was most likely purchased from Sunnyside Nursery, (it was four-5 long blocks away from where I saw her, across a 2 lane stop light, thoroughfare). The tree's rootball appeared holding on and held to her as much as it was carried as precious cargo against abdomen and chest. Her arms were crossed and her forearms may have clung to one another as a brilliant ergonomic support.

I found myself remembering the feel of tucked-up young ones carried. Carried to the car, carried to the house, carried from the place where they fell asleep, carried to their beds, and carried to the next destination in vehicles of course, school plays and sleep overs and family trips. And then, appear the beloved trees that carried me through childhood, apple tree, weeping willow, the chestnuts, the bean tree, the very old and giant un-nameables, so many bouncy branches, and hidden forts. Something about carrying and carrying on was happening here. Something felt familiar and familial also. 

The tree's trunk and branches appeared to reach 4 feet over the woman's head. She walked outside of bounds, off sidewalk, avoiding hanging limbs and other interference. I stopped and watched, inside my car on Center Blvd.. Silly notions I secretly and cynically harbored about, how, by now, "I'd seen it all!", simply unraveled. Lame, hidden, prejudice and ageism surrounding a banal world and an 'old women's capacity' hopped into view, to give a salute before they vanished. dissolved. Finally, I discarded the obscure belief that "Nothing really happens in San Anselmo!".

I knew she did not want or need help. Even so, I backtracked to offer assistance because I am programed some but mostly because I was curious. "No thank-you." She answered quick and direct. Her eyes diverted for a fraction of a second my way. She never broke stride and I felt no meanness, shoulds, or self consciousness with her rejection. Just was. Regardless of horsepower available she intended to carry this tree solo.

I made sure not to interrupt her trajectory as I awkwardly drove ahead, then swung around to pass her again. I saw the lightest flicker of light upon her face then. It was almost a smile or an ephemeral shadow dancing that hinted at an internal sense of triumph and well-earned pride. It was more than self sufficiency she was carrying on with devotion.

Now, I was carrying the woman who carried the tree. She moved me. 

Driving onto the 'Miracle Mile', unexpected images arise. St. Francis turned from society to commune with earth and animals, suddenly appears. Then Mother Teresa appears to minister to one more, by the flickering light of an old lantern. Then a flash; straw mattresses. A girl sitting on a stool in golden hay. Her clogs hold firm as hooves to the old thick floor as she milks a cow. Her fingers are red, barn windows are black. It's a long cold winter. Time, before dawn. Steam rises from tin buckets. The milk makes a sound as it hits metal with force. The girls' parents depend on her. She does what she can for the family and is grateful for what she's got.

The woman who carried the tree carried her childhood.

The woman who carried the tree carried a sense of service and honor.

As the light turns green I merge forward. I notice the people in cars beside me, each in 'their own world' and in 'our world', our ancestral bones dug deep in the earth and DNA strands winding like thorough ways. Light reflects hard off metal vehicles. Asphalt and blim blam shine can't cover and blind everything. Bone dust and stardust float everywhere. I know it. I am it. Still moving on the Miracle Mile, I continue to carry the woman who carried the tree. She has now become my muse and I'm driving the story, as far as it wants.

I imagine the woman's tree planting marks her brother's passing. Her beloved brother may be named Sven or Emil or Axel. These two understood each other without words. They grew side by side as brothers and sisters do. They worked and studied and played as children do. They came to respect one another until the time of wise elders came to hold them. Love can be that simple and profound; unadorned and real.

This tree carrying and tree planting, it's a remembering ritual. It honors connections forged through  realms of spirit and earth. I was her witness as she gathered in her particular threads to follow. Now, she carries forth, The root ball is held against her abdomen and chest, like a baby, so close and precious to her body. Her body is precious to the tree as well.

I became her storyteller as she will not write and craft her story for others. She does not consider her story unique. She's content being one of many, with no one more and no one less important. She learned this perspective through her hands, feet, knuckles, and knees. She grew like a tall stalk on a farm where everyone lives and works within a web, interdependent.

Nature shows us if we listen. I heard from the woman who carried the tree ground up, on this day. It's clear, that particular tree returned to earth in a private and direct Ritual of Remembering.

Like everything, that tree will grow from the past toward an unknown future. Will the woman ever taste the fruits from the tree? God knows that was never the point or the reason.