Fine Tree

Do you like to sit in nature?

Maybe a better question is, 'Are you able to sit in nature?'. For me, a restful sit is a natural craving, but I'm not always good at it. You might be thinking, "How can someone not be good at sitting? You've got a backside, don't ya?" Well, yes, physically, there are no barriers to me sitting. The journey to the seat is growing more precarious with each birthday, but once I'm down, it's smooth sitting. What I mean is, are you able to engage in the purpose of a restful sit in nature: to be present?

I always start that way but rarely last more than a minute or so before my inner dialogue barges in on the resting. During this particular spell, it was anxiety that interrupted my sitting. Anxiety is not the only culprit that infringes on my sitting. Sometimes, it's the urge to mindlessly scroll, shop online for unnecessary comforts, or send a text that slipped my mind. To be honest, I'm not always pleased when anxiety interrupts, but this time I was glad.

I was walking along the foot-worn path by the banks of the river behind my house when I saw the most enticing cedar tree. The golden hour sun warmed my face while I took in the angle of the trunk - perfect leaning angle - and the expanse of the roots - ideal width for my backside. Almost as if in the last few decades, this particular tree grew with the goal of covering weary travelers with its boughs while resting between its roots. The posture of the tree seemed to call to me in an unspoken yet understood language,

"Hey there! Would you sit a spell against my trunk? Come and rest between my roots."

And so I did. But not right away.

You see, as I braced myself to sit on the uneven ground beneath me - an extra step that was not required the first time a tree beckoned me to sit beneath it - I realized I was probably not the only one to find this particular cedar enticing. The roots opened onto the ground like the twirl of a pleated skirt, creating multiple nooks and crannies that no doubt offered a cozy home with protection to creatures of the appropriate size. So before I sat, I remembered my manners and gave the trunk a few knocks to be polite but, more importantly, avoid startling any woodland tenants and, in turn, startling myself.

With no objections from any tree trunk residents, I made myself comfortable between two elongated roots that formed a nice me-sized space. Anxiety, mercifully, allowed me to take a few filling breaths before presenting predictions.

I knew why anxiety was so eager - or, well, anxious - to interrupt my efforts to be present. While the summer depths of the river receded, my beloved husband, Shelby, was wading in the now shallow river bed, doing his part to remove driftwood and debris from our corner of the slough. Our dog, Wyatt, frolicked alongside him through the grassy mud, leaping more like a deer than a dog.

Anxiety simply needed to ensure I was aware of each and every possible danger that might interrupt my idyllic Sunday and befall my loved ones.

The longer I indulged in sitting, the more I became confident in anxiety's assessment that a snake would attack one or both of my loved ones. Or that a piece of driftwood, hidden in the muck, would catch a foot and cause a nasty fall. I desperately fidgeted, waiting for an appropriate amount of time to pass before suggesting we go back inside. Like I said, I'm not the best sitter.

The longer I watched them, the higher my cortisol, the more I obsessed over Wyatt. It started to feel like I like watching a different animal. A wild animal.

To put it plainly, he was living his best life.

He ran through the grasses without abandon, bringing Shelby any sticks or debris he felt deserved his master's attention. A smile grew on my face, watching him stalk through the grass, splash through the shallow waters, and run with all his might until his tongue had no choice but to hang out of his mouth to allow for maximum airflow while he panted.

Watching them together, the urge I had to stop them started to feel like the wrong thing to do. All the possibilities of danger were still there, but in that moment I realized the fun they were having was more important than my perceived possibility of danger. A sorrowful realization crept into my awareness

I've no doubt missed out on many a rip-roaring good time because I was focused on the possibilities of danger. Giving my energy to what could go wrong. How many wild and free moments did anxiety urge me to miss?

I sat under the cozy cedar with lighter shoulders and dwelled on my epiphany. I was so proud and grateful for this mindful realization that I overlooked the chipmunk, cheeks full of acorns, resting alongside me under the cedar tree. Surprisingly, he was not frightened; if he was, he did not scurry away. I’ve never been in the company of a woodland critter long enough for us to notice each other. I couldn’t help but feel honored by the unexpected presence and grateful Mr. Chipmunk had not scurried away. Maybe he could sense I was deep in critical thought and did not wish to startle me. Or perhaps he was also enticed by the cedar tree as I was. Whatever the reason he decided to sit with me under the cedar tree, I was grateful.

Before eventually scurrying away, I could have sworn he looked up at me and asked with his gaze, “Fine tree, isn’t it?”