So I was Once Myself a Swinger of Birches

I’m a tree huger. I say it loud and proud. I’m not a tree-huger in a social-political sense (well, that could be debated), I’m a literal tree huger. As in, I hug trees. There have been many trees in my life, they are cataloged in my memory, and recalled with all the softness of pussy willows on your fingertips: where each lived, what their names were, what was going on in my life when that tree was part of it . . . trees like The Enchanted Tree, and The Old Swing Tree and Erma and Emaline. There are also trees that I’ve never met, just admired from a distance. Like the tree that lives just past the round-about in Lehi, that we pass every time we go to Jena and Lance’s. “I love that Tree” I say to Wyatt every time. “I know” is all he says back. If there was one thing that would make me move – in a heart beat – away from my beloved neighborhood, it would be a big piece of land with big beautiful trees. Oh what rapture fills my soul when I see a wonderful tree. There never was a toy so entertaining as a tree. There never was a feeling more warm and secure than the rough bark on bare feet.

Sometimes I look back on my . . . long . . . life, and I’m surprised at how “grown up” I’ve become. It actually discourages me. Nothing reminds me of it more than spending time with my sisters. Sisters – who are not grown up – who used to look to me as the ring leader of all our great games. I must be very boring now. Very concerned with “logistics” and “projects” and “making sure dinner is made.” I used to wear Polyester like it was all the rage. Now I’m so conservative in my clothes I bore even myself! I used to wear roller skates like they were shoes . . . great for going to the grocery store. But now I think – “I’ll break my ankle!” I used to make things and have ideas and make lists of fun and fabulous things to do. The other day I tried to brainstorm for our Christensen family summer. It was PATHETIC.

Lest this sounds like a good start on summer, let me tell you: EVERY SINGLE THING ON THIS LIST is a repeat of summers past. I couldn’t come up with one single new original idea!

If I was my twenty year old self looking at my twenty-nine year old self, I would be disgusted . . . not at all things. But certainly at my ability to think of original and creative ideas. I’ve turned very – ahem – relief-society-ish. For this I apologize to my dear sisters. They seem to take it in stride.

I think I’ve done everything on this list except make out on an escalator. Now you know what I’m doing Friday night. Where’s a really long escalator?

Wyatt is an excellent technical writer. I know, you’d never know it by his post below, but I attribute that to him writing it on a whim at 1:00 am and not taking this blog format seriously (can you believe it?). He got an A on EVERY paper he ever wrote in college. He got a PERFECT score on his graduate entrance exam in the writing section. I’m proud of him, even if he does stand over my shoulder and correct my spelling at times. ESCHEW EXCESS VERBIAGE. That was written in red colored pencil on one of my high school papers. I had to look up “Eschew” to understand what my teacher was saying. “Don’t write in passive voice.” What does that mean, anyway? I never did figure it out. I’m better at Creative Writing than Technical. That’s because Creative Writing is much more forgiving. But I don’t have that consistency that I so admire in some people’s writing.

I used to read A LOT. I used to know poetry, I used to be well versed in the classics. Now I read something and think ‘oh yeah! I knew that once.’  And then I think ‘I should know stuff like this more.’ But I don’t.

Wyatt and I watched Valkyrie a few nights ago. Boring. I fell asleep (but then again, it was after 10:00). But there was one aspect of the movie that I really liked. There was a part when the main character (Tommy) is telling his wife: “If we fail, they’ll come after you and the children.” And all she says is “I know.”

And they do fail. And Tommy is killed. Wife and kids survive and nine months later the Allies take Berlin. But the part I found so inspiring by that is simply this: The main character didn’t wait to let someone else do the right thing. He didn’t wait for the Allies, or another group. He simply acted on the situation before him, doing the right thing regardless of personal consequences. Not only personal consequences to himself, but his family. And his wife was a hero as well – she knew he had to do what was right, regardless of consequences to herself or children. That is true heroism. I don’t believe we live in a world where there are many people like that. I don’t think I’m like that. I’m all talk when it comes to consequences to myself, but ask me to put my kid in danger, and it’s a no-go.

There’s a Robert Frost poem – Birches – that I really like. I made a book of it once when I lived on the Indian Reservation. But Olivia got a hold of it this past winter, and now the tie on the binding is frayed. Oh well. I’ll have to make her a new one. It so inspires me.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me – I’m happy at this place in my life. So happy. It’s so good. But sometimes I look back and am astonished. I was so sure – so sure I would always live my life with creativity and courage and adventure. I was sure my arms would always be able to pull me into the branches of any tree I chose. Now life is so different. How do you reconcile?