trees

Right now our street is full of naked trees. All of these mighty oaks and proud maples who only weeks ago blazed and strutted in the wind now sit muted against the gray landscape. The 50-year-old trees in our “baby boom” neighborhood were one of the reasons I fell in love with our house. They let me know spring is coming with their tiny shoots; they provide an anchor and shade for my hammock in the summer; they wave the banner for fall. And then, in winter, they are stilled. And in their quietness and bareness I find another reason to love them.

In the town near where I grew up there was a movie theater called The Broadway . A glorious one-screen theater from pre-multiplex days in which you could conjure up images of people going to see Gone with the Wind or The Philadelphia Story or Casablanca. And in that theater, on either side of the screen, giant wall murals of Adam and Eve watched over every frame and every movie goer and every balcony makeout session. I remember just stariing at those murals when I was little and wondering at their blank faces and the fig leaves painted on just so. You knew, because of the fig leaves, that this was an after-the-fall Adam and Eve. After they got booted out of Eden. After they felt the first icey prick of shame. After their pride pushed the first domino in the blame game. And their human shame and pride made them cover themselves. And humankind’s shame and pride has been handing us fig leaves ever since.

I am thankful for the trees on our street. Because I have covered up. I have clenched my fists to hold on to the projected me. The me that needs to be right. The me that needs to look a certain way and get certain sort of attention. The me that wants success and praise. The me that tweaks a story just enough to shine the light favorably on me. The me that is terrified of nakedness. The me who, even though my palms may bleed with the cut of nails, can’t bring myself to pry my hands open and just. let. go. But every time I walk outside or drive in my car or glance out the window at work I see them. And something about their stark imagery is comforting, their crooked symmetry, beautiful. And it reminds my weary body to open up my clenched fists and let it all fall.