Another temple

I look out my bedroom window each morning at an ancient Douglas Fir. It is oldest, largest, living thing in my neighborhood, an outlier of the forests that took root in town. Although it is an evergreen, it is shedding now and deep carpets of needles cover the road around it.

I don’t think this tree has ever been trimmed. Occasionally a large limb breaks and falls. I feel the risk of the tree’s presence. High winds could pull it from its roots. If it fell on my house, my house might be destroyed. Its path looks like it would fall on Erik’s home across the street, but it could land on our bedroom too, depending on the wind direction.

I respect this tree. It holds my prayers. I climb it in my dreams. I live with its risk, its history, its silence, and its power. I listen to it in the wind. I imagine the beings that live within it: spider, bird, squirrel, opossum, raccoon, rat, termite, countless bugs I’d never have names for. The tree is gently armored; touching the needles is painful to my hands. The lowest limbs are much too high for easy climbing.

This tree is a temple and an incarnation. It holds me close, keeps me safe and at risk, reminds me that I am very small in the face of nature, reminds me of the miracle that is life and creation.