Rumor, when properly tended, becomes legend.
Rumor has it that I descend from gods and royals, lovers and virgins, and the hands of two bloods, red and white. Through eternity, my kin fostered opulent legends and epic reverence.
Maybe you know of the princess who fled her father’s kingdom to become a devout hermit performing miracles from the base of a tree? Or of Zeus transforming a dying couple, who were still vibrantly in love, into two trees, their branches forever intertwined? Or perhaps you’ve read Eminescu’s timeless poems, all written from underneath a fabled tree?
Not to brag, but I hail from a botanastic dynasty that goes by many names. Through millennia, robust branches have thrived in Europe and Asia, across British Isles, Nordic mountains, and Romanian parks. Our crowns are lofty and lush, our roots deep and resolute. Our rings are adorned not in gold or diamonds, but with flowers and honey.
We are the guardians of secrets and the purveyors of truth. I can decipher encrypted birdsong, conceal nests and children, and capture the wind’s whispers. My awning has sheltered the righteous, bristled against bias, and nurtured soulmates.
The American Tilia Branch is my direct line, with kissing cousins Little-Leaf, Tomentosa, and Henryana, who goes by Henry’s Lime. I have been called Basswood, Beetree, and Silver, but please, just call me Linden.
Every tree has a story. Mine has enchanted entire forests for centuries.
Rhapsody in Spring
As a young sprout, my world was an impeccable, dense kaleidoscope of green. Rain serenaded the grass, and I swayed to catch dewdrops. Frogs added percussion. Bright lime parakeets and treehoppers darted between Spring shoots. Even the powdery smooth caresses of emerald moths on olive milkweed vines pulsed with pigment. I still recall the unforced rhythms of that Green Grace as if it were yesterday…
Oh! What is that wriggling ball of dandelion fuzz? It’s floppy and coming my way! No, there are three floppy dandelions!
My neighbor is a brooding Oak tree. He tells me these are bunnies-cuddly wild animals, not plants like us.
Oh! Wait for me! I want to play with the dandelion bunnies. So, I brandish my leaves and stretch my roots to join in their frolic. My seed may be sown, but my spirit is liberated.
Wait! Where are you going? They are flopping to the canopies of Cottonwood codgers huddled by the river. I’ll have a great canopy one day, and then the bunnies will hop and rest with me.
…With those earliest memories came the joy of seedling wonder. My roots were not yet well-developed, but I was grounded in my forest family and the knowing that I was conceived with hope. Let me tell you more…
Woodland fairies sing stories of two bloods planting my seed, of a nobleman and a warrior meeting at the river yonder. The gentleman tells of mythical Lindens that hold a divine presence, promote healing, and under which no lie can be told. The warrior speaks to his noble friend of a place to honor the Peacemaker and the Eagle so that this shared land will be rooted in harmony and winged with wisdom.
These two humans sow unity as fresh as the new colonies. They hunt and share meals. The warrior’s woman tucks me in at night with rich tapestries of soil and prayers. I grow strong and straight.
One day, the gentleman brings his wife, who has a seed growing in her stomach. The gentleman and Milady spread a blanket beside my burgeoning arbor to laugh and dream. Tapestries and dreams become the light that sustains me. Way better than dandy floppies.
When I reach ten rings of age, I overhear the brazen gossip of the breeze. The winds blow warnings of angry locusts carrying rifles and a Trail of Tears flowing just past my purview, on a bloody horizon. Whatever that means.
Weeks go by, and no one comes to tuck me in or daydream. Rains pour, unrelenting in their extravagant sorrow. The warriors are gone, forced to sprout in a gaunt, far-away land. The gentleman becomes a reluctant soldier and soldiers on.
Surely, my conceivers will come home. I wait. Any season now. I hope. I believe.
Expectations have a funny way of unraveling, leaving nothing except bare truths. The reality is they never return, I am orphaned, and my world tints in colorless shards of darkness.
Evergreens hum courage, but my forest frivolity falls away, and I slip into deciduous doldrums. The annoying mighty Oak reveals that possibilities are endless when we rotate our perspective simply by moving into the light. Huh? Ignoring my teenage naiveté, he quips something about ‘within dormancy lies great potential.’ For what, I wonder.
Time snatches precious hours. Before I know it, I have become a snarky sapling looking for a way to high-five the sky. My impatience to grow up does nothing to trellis my height. I don’t find it particularly exciting to twiddle my twigs until the growing season arrives. Crickets incessantly clacking their crochet needles are not music to my ears. Even the arrival of white-tailed deer in the clearing fails to quell my rebellious boredom to grow already.
Well, dormancy delivers, but not in the way I expect. One bleak night, the noble soldier’s wife staggers through our woods in a virulent sleet storm. Milady rests her head on my burrowing roots and sobs for the great loves she has lost-first her husband and now her sapling son.
My branches droop with grief, and I shelter Milady as best I can through the freezing storm. I can do nothing but absorb her dying tears. I call to the Legends for divine healing. I shout for creatures of the forest to come when they can. The fierce gale strangles my cries for help.
In the blue light of morning, an enormous eagle lands on my crest, and I buckle under its hefty talons, but only for a moment. His magical prowess instantly warms my soggy soul to a golden glow. Sparrows sound reveille. Floppies and wild parakeets come to fill the crevices between Milady’s lifeless branches and mine. The woodland fairies thank me for my bravery and sprinkle Milady with forget-me-nots and jasmine petals. Migrant swarms of bees pollinate and fructify. Milady’s spirit awakens as if from slumber, hugs me, and vanishes into every sprig of my being.
This same day, I celebrate my fifteenth ring with a five-o-clock shadow and six whole inches in height. Sun shines down and dries the last of my rankled leaves. I feel the earthly cadence of being whole. I am no longer an orphan, a sapling. I have become the kaleidoscope, not just with shades of green, but with all the colors of the forest.
High-five, big sky!
Originally published in Luna Station Quarterly on November 20, 2022.
