Turning Left

From October of 2005 until now I have taken a left turn on a tree lined street. As far as the eye can see there are two species of mature deciduous trees planted next to one another-- so close really that their branches intermingle.

Last fall, when the strong winds undressed the boughs, I noticed the many evacuated nests peviously occupied in leafier months. Seeing them, I felt God was letting me in on some secret. Nature is like that, energy and life going on, but quite hidden from awareness.

Some times it is 5:30 am when I turn left and the singing of varieties of birds inhabiting the trees is so loud that it competes with the music I am listening to. I am forced to turn down my selection because the vocalists demand an audience. Their compositions are pretty frenetic--- not as harmonious as my Bach partitas, but they contain a greater legitimacy-- more primal joy.


The first time I entered this sort of hall of trees I felt the potential for many teachable moments. Creation has a way of lulling you away from things that stunt your transformation. It seems to quiet me, yet awaken another dimension of awareness. I like being in that place. I like noticing that leaves come bright green, small and touchable and that pink blossoms may erupt violently on only one tree leaving all its other naked neighbors quite envious.

My latest teachable moments have stirred while observing the dramatic changes taking place on my pathway. Maturity is the latest lesson. Some people, like the single pink blossom, just burst out. But people are not trees and though they look mature on the out side, they can be undeveloped on the inside. It is a task, I am sure, to catch up. Sadly, I think some people never do. I’ve observed that the loss of innocence is sometimes the cost of maturity. I ask God,” Is this necessary---is it avoidable?" Can a botanist prevent a tree from bursting? What would the consequence of that be? I’ll just have to keep turning left and pay attention.