The Tree

The Tree



He pulled into his favorite parking spot.  Cracking all four windows against the on-coming heat, he cut the ignition, and reached for his walking shoes.  His hand hit a box.  He scowled at the backseat piled high with the refuse of the previous five years of his professional life.  The boxes reached high enough for him to see in the rearview mirror. The distraction of seeing them almost caused two wrecks on the short trip here.  He opened the back door, and shouldering the pile aside, managed to pull the shoes from beneath.  He laced on the "cross-trainers", dropped his I-pod around his neck, and got out.  Cinching his belt a couple of notches tighter, he started down the park's longest path, two-plus miles that would take him thirty minutes to complete.  Sunglasses in place, he started the music on his I-pod.  Head erect, chin in, spine and neck straight and balanced, he started walking.

         
Fired.  Those sons-of-bitches!  What the hell do they mean?  How dare they?  No warnings.  No talks.  No second chances.  Just, "We are not happy with the way things are going in your area.  We are letting you go."  What does that mean?  What are you unhappy about, you ass?
         Breathe, do not forget to breathe.  He re-balanced his head, elongated his spine and neck, dropped and opened his shoulders and took a long, slow, quiet, breath.  Then another and another.  His heart slowed, as did his pace.  He had almost been running.  Walking was supposed to keep him from a heart attack, not cause one.  Breathe.  Clear the mind.  Focus. 
         He was approaching the first wooded area, a small cluster of trees offering little shade to the main path.  Wood chips paved the side path and deep shade blanketed two benches, a rock garden, and a shade garden.  The effect was oriental.  It wasn't anything specific.  It just was.  Tranquility oozed from the place.  Someday he meant to spend time there, but not today.
         He had known as soon as they walked through the door, his boss and that shit head Brown, Davies looking serious and Brown trying to keep the smirk off his face. 
"We're going to let you go."
He had shown no emotion, just cleaned out his desk and left.  He hadn't asked any questions.  The answers would have been bullshit anyway.  And he hadn't argued.  What would have been the point?
What was he going to tell his wife?
         Disappointment, no, failure pressed on him.  It pressed hard.  The weight of loosing another job bowed his shoulders, bent his back, forced his head down. The prospect of driving home to tell his wife, of seeing her eyes, her worry, her fear in the second before she hid it brought him to a stop.  The resistance to move was like trying to walk in thick viscid mud.  His emotions were all over his face and other walkers were staring.
         Breathe.  Focus.  Clear the mind.  Get the body moving.  Breathe.  Relax.  Be calm.  Be present.  Be mindful of the warmth of the air.  Be aware of the sky, the clouds, the day.  Be conscience of the children, the pets, the people enjoying this moment, this place.  Be aware.
         He had begun a long winding incline, gentle but pronounced.  It curved around a picnic area close by the parking lot, swung along an open hillside and, at the summit bordered, a "delicate forested environment".  The oldest trees here were not more than fifty years old, but before the forest, alone on the side of the hill, stood a truly ancient oak.  Nearly as broad as it was tall, its main branches dwarfed the trunks of the trees in the nearby "forest".  This colossus predated this town, this state, and possibly this country.  Its shade, open, wide and dappled showed gaps where lightening and wind had scarred it.  Some old, some new, these scars spoke of grievous damage, but the oak lived.  The oak thrived.  The oak stood in living testimony to strength, and
resilience, and fortitude.  Here he would pause.  There were lessons to be taken from this place.  But not yet.  First he must burn off the anger, get his mind prepared to be quiet.  First he would walk.
         The trees overhung the path as it delineated the forest's curved edge.  The air, cool and rich, registered on his consciousness.  The difference from the city air was palatable, and everyone seemed to slow as they passed through.  Lungs filled, eyelids dropped, faces relaxed and lips smiled.   
         As the path left the edge of the forest it began a long decline tracing along the back edge of formal gardens.  Rose gardens, water gardens, and annual flower gardens were interspaced with arbores and gazebos, fountains and benches.  The path twisted and turned, fell, rose again, and baked in unbroken sun for the next mile.  It was a good stretch for thought.  Nothing special intercepted the eye or distracted the mind.
         He lengthened his stride, and increased his tempo.  He focused on his breathing.  He tried to keep his mind clear.  He tried to be in the present.
         What was he going to do now?  There was nowhere to go, a dead end career.  Shit, he was fifty-two, the no-where-else-to-go age.  Could he afford to start over?  Could he physically keep up even if he could afford it?  Start over at what?  Do what, the same old thing?  He didn't know how to do anything else.  Damn it, he had been good at his job.  He had been building a team and positioning his section for sustainable growth instead of boom-and-bust that
makes things worse not better.  And he had been doing it without backbiting internal competition.  When someone else got credit for things he had done he had told himself it didn't matter. The important thing was that progress was made.  When another manager asked for his help, he gave it freely.  He had focused on the long term and not played politics.  He had done his job well.  Now what was he going to do?
         He lifted his head, elongated his spine and neck, dropped his shoulders, and opened his chest, repeating the process again.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.
         Damn it!  Damn it!  Damn it!  What was it?  He wasn't good enough?  He wasn't bad enough?  He wasn't something enough.  That much was obvious.  Okay, he had done things a little differently.  Shit!  He had been guiding changes that could have worked.  Now all of that would be tossed out like fuzzy fruit.  No other manager would come near his work unless, of course, Brown resurrected it under his own name.  What would be worse, seeing all of his work die, or seeing Brown take credit for it? 
         Let it go.  If he couldn't let go of his anger, it would burn him up.  No one can think when angry.  He had to let go and move forward, had to decide which way was forward, had to be calm.  He was holding on to the anger so he wouldn't have to think, to make decisions, to face the present and plan the future.  So stop it.  Quit fighting it.  Quit forcing it.  Just let it all go.
He was on the last stretch.  The path had turned again and the parking lot was in sight.  Several acres of open lawn were hosting sunbathers, a hot debate between two gothic teens, and a game of Frisbee football.  He took a deep breath, forced every bit of air out of his lungs, and, being out of path and excuses, inhaled and exhaling again, just let go.
         He opened the gym bag at the foot of the oak.  He spread a course rug in a smooth spot between roots as thick as his leg.  On this he laid a thick, round pillow, a small cardboard box, and an incense burner.  The path lay down hill from the tree and the warming air would flow upward for many hours yet.  He would share the aroma of sandalwood with the squirrels and the robins, and no one else.  The box held a brass bell with a wooden striker.  He placed these on the lid of the box.  He could never manage the lotus, so he settled onto the pillow in a simple crossed-leg position, and having lit incense, struck the bell once.  Allowing his upper body to elongate above his hips, he relaxed each part of his body starting with his head and face and progressing to his feet.  He was practiced at this and it only took a few minutes.
         He focused on his breathe, on the flow of air in and out of his nostrils.  He didn't force other things from his mind, just gently pushed them into the shadows of his perception.  His eyes half open, he was aware of what was going on around him, the way people are aware of other people in the theater
without distraction.  His focus deepened.  Awareness of everything but his breath dimmed.  He narrowed his focus.  He brought himself to awareness of the gap between breaths.  A roving Frisbee game moved in and out of his environment.  He heard the noise, but focused on the silence the noise played against, like focusing on the theater screen to the exclusion of the images playing on it.  Now he was not focused on something, he was just focused.
         "A tree is a tree, is a tree, is a tree, and that is about all a tree can be" is how the meditation goes.  Oh, but what a tree this oak was.  Ancient and massive, it could define strength.  It had survived complete change in its surroundings and severe changes in its climate, but had remained true to its own nature.  This tree has never sought to be anything but what it was.  This oak has never pursued being a birch, or an ash, or an apple tree.  The single goal had, for the last several hundred years, been to be an oak tree, and it had succeeded.  It succeeded because it was content.  It succeeded because it had not forced itself, nor had others forced it, into a shape the Universe did not intend.  Nothing but Nature had bent, pruned or engineered this oak.  And while intelligence may or may not have been involved, the lesson was still the same.  Life does best that follows its nature.
         He has not followed his nature.  It was not his nature to self-promote, to grab after credit, to deal in half-facts, part-truths, and subtle put-downs. 
He has watched those around him do these things and hide them behind pluralisms, espousing team while thumping their own chests.  And he has
seen these people prosper.  He knew the environment he was entering when he took the job.
It was his nature to promote growth in those around him, to praise the accomplishments of others over his own, to find solutions that benefited everyone, to compliment instead of compete.  He had done these things ---most of the time, but a fish out of water must occasionally dunk it's head to survive and he had dunked his to get his agenda approved, and so had broken faith with himself.  Now he was out of agendas, out of work and out of time. 
         The oak surrounded him.  Its trunk was to his back; it's canopy above and around him, and its roots below him.  He inhaled the essence of the tree.  He expanded his awareness to include, again, his breath, then his body, and then the tree itself.  He felt the tree's breath, the tree's strength, the tree's stillness, the tree's life.
So much has occurred since the birth of this tree.  The life span of the man will be a brief few moments in the life of this tree.  Yet the life of this ancient oak is just a flicker in the timelessness of the cosmos.  Infinitesimal, but not insignificant.  Others have come to this oak seeking its shade, its quiet, and its solitude.  All left changed by what was here, and all went on to bring about change themselves.  Some of those changes were great, others
small, but all were important at some level.  This oak has changed the landscape and environment around it, and these changes will continue long
after the physicalness of the tree has ceased, and now the tree was changing the man sitting in its shade.
The presence of the oak was huge, the history long, the strength awesome, the quiet spellbinding.  The stillness of the tree captured the man's focus.  It is in stillness like this that questions can be asked and answers heard and understood.  The man let the oak's stillness be his own. 
The questions came back to him.  What will I do now?  How will I support my family?  What will I tell my wife?  Where will I find another job?  What kind of job?  Where?  What?  When?  How?  This time they came to him quietly, separately, without accusation or blame.  This time they came seeking answers. 
He opened the trunk and placed the bag inside. He added his shoes, and stepped to the car door in his stocking-feet.  He would stop and get a bottle of water, maybe something to eat.  He would have to eat before getting home.  His wife would have questions, and he didn't have the answers.  Still he knew what to tell her.  He knew what direction to start.  He didn't know the details or the ending.  He didn't even know the middle, but he knew how to begin.  The things he wanted to accomplish are ahead.  If he can leave the other stuff behind, the doubt, the anger, the blame, if he can stay within his nature, he may be able to get some of it done. 
Backing out of his favorite parking spot, he paused to look at the oak just visible in the distance.  He would bring his grandson here soon, this summer, maybe next week.  Johnny is four, old enough to meet the tree and chase butterflies in its shade.