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Van Dyken
18 June 2012
Emerald
May
The magnolia tree
used to be much taller. But now as I
hugged it with one arm and looked up into its canopy, this tree in the front
yard of the house I’d always known seemed just the right size for a teenage
girl. The lowest branch was only up to
my shoulders, but it wasn’t always so.
Climbing it now was easy as I found my way to the top of the tree where
there was a branch system that made a cradle just right for one as petite as
myself. With joyous familiarity, I
rested back upon the branches and centered myself in my world. May blossoms were looming all around me:
those pure white magnolias as large as my head.
Their deep, heady fragrance filled the air, and I was willingly overcome
by it. Languidly, I fingered one of the smooth,
dark green, glossy leaves with its fuzzy underside beneath a crown of a magnolia.
I knew better now than to actually touch one of the velvet petals, lest the
alabaster turn brown. The South Louisiana sky
was a deep blue at the zenith that faded to pale turquoise at the horizon. My cradle faced the south where, only a mile
away, the Mississippi river flowed mightily and I took comfort from its
strength. I look to my left where, only
five miles away, is Lake
Borne Gulf of Mexico . Continuing the circle of water, I tilt my
head back to look north. The overflow
canal borders my backyard and a few miles beyond that canal lies Lake
Ponchartrain like a small sea whose bridge spans 25 miles. And to the west is a humble canal beyond a
small forest with blazing trees at every sunset and no name. Encircled as I am by such powerful waters, my
world is secure.
I now felt rooted
again. My high school life is one of frenzied
cacophony, strengthening stresses, and exhaustion. But now I was ready to go. The nameless forest to the west had been
calling me all through the busy week. It
bids me rest there; it misses me. It’s
just a tiny wood, I know now, but the half square-mile stretch behind nearly
every house on the street is simply unfathomable to a little girl, such as I
still was. My side yard marked its
eastern border, but the entrance was down the dead end street. Only fifty paces or so and the asphalt was
conquered by the encroaching grass. This
was where the magic began. The trees
grew thickly here where the main trail started; they were both sentinels and
the portal. I plunged into the friendly
forest and as I walked, I greeted all the plants who I’m sure were happy to see
me, too. Some of them chided me for
being away so long. The Chinese tallow
trees, the canes of Indian gum, elm, and oak all grew densely together and I
touched any leaves of theirs within my reach.
There were vines of mirliton, which I didn’t know until ten years later
that the rest of the world calls chayote.
My mother and grandmother eagerly
harvest this vegetable as well as the blackberries which we sometimes collect
together by the bucketsful. Their
brambles were everywhere, winding their way wildly wherever they pleased. “May is blackberry time,” I sing aloud as I
follow the familiar path.
I’m not the only
kid to make the woods their playground, though, as evidenced by the Wicca’s
circle further off the path in a tiny clearing.
It is believed that ancient spirits live here, having been pushed back
by urbanization to this tiny patch of wilderness. I move on to find more
friends in the red bud, ash, and pine.
There are saplings in every free space, trying to make the woods even
more packed with life. Rich earth, decaying
leaves, and crisp green life are as overwhelming to my senses as the
magnolia. Finally, the bend in the path
brings me to my marker on the right: a knotted tallow tree. I plunge right into the thicket behind the
tallow. There is no path. I’ve made my
own, and I make my way over low brambles under branches and around saplings
until I come to The Spot. A towering ash
tree hails me happily. He is
criss-crossed with, and surrounded by, blackberry brambles that make a natural
arbor. The construction is low enough so
as to fit one sitting teenage girl. I
crawl into it and lean my back against the ash and gently remove some snagged
golden hair.
Here the outside
world does not exist. My noisy siblings
and endless schoolwork and activities have not followed me here. I cannot even remember how or why I found
this spot. It felt like I had always
been here. Though other kids prowled the
woods, too, I was assured of my solitude in this natural cave. The wind blew through the trees making them
talk and I wished with all my might to decipher the language. Though I could not understand the trees, they
still dance spiritedly for me, but little of the breeze makes it through to The
Spot. The sun overhead sends down
swaying yellow and green light, making emeralds of the tree leaves as it warms
my bones through. There were many ripe
blackberries on the bramble above me, enticing me with their rich fruity aroma
and so I reach up and pluck a few. The
tartness makes my face pucker. By the
time I finished three or four handfuls, I could make out the babbling of a
stream and smell its water. Perhaps
there would be an egret there! A sudden
gust of wind surges through the trees and I will
the trees to talk to me, to let me understand their sighs. The attempt fails, but I got the feeling that
the wind and trees are at least fond of me for trying. So I talk to them, instead.
It is good to hear
my own voice. My little wood becomes my
diary as I work out aloud the knotted thoughts in my head. A long while after I have finished speaking,
I notice that the trees have been calm this whole time – they were listening to
me. I still myself with them, feeling
empty, weightless, and clean. The sun
moves slowly until it drops behind the western tree line and the emeralds
become long, dark shadows. “You may go,”
the forest tells me, “just come back soon.”
Without ceremony, I wriggle out of my hiding place and lope through the
grove and back on to the main path, saying goodbye to the life and magic
enclosed by the portal-sentinels. Then
my shoes find asphalt. Ahead, my grand
magnolia awaits me. She has missed me.
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