Walking Beneath the Trees
The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it,
the world, and those who live in it
--Psalm 24:1
One of the great discoveries in moving to Sacramento has been the plethora of beautiful trees. There are oak trees of several kinds; orange, lemon, and pomegranate trees; all sorts of palm tree; maples; gum; too many pines to name (but redwoods are a particular favorite--especially the ones that seem like free will anarchists along city streets); but the tree that continually captures my attention is the olive.
Olives, like the dogwoods of my native South, are a small tree and most often sport trunks twisted into all kinds of knots that send spindly arms up to the sun where they spread a canopy of small, deep green, almost waxy leaves.
They also drop olives seemingly all the time.
But it is that twisted trunk that captivates me. It is like the tree wrestled itself into being. Even though an olive is firmly fixed in place, looking at one is an observance of motion. There is so much action in that trunk. You begin to believe that if you sat an watched an olive long enough, you would see the dance that is frozen in place come to life.
The branching arms that rise above are shaped by the gnarled trunk. There are no straight limbs, but all the branches appear slightly arthritic. It is as if all that captured motion unfolds with each upward inch of growth.
My neighborhood had to have been an olive orchard once. The trees are too orderly in their arrangement. In spots, you can still see the pattern of rows as ten or twelve trees line up in parallel columns of five or six. They still produce a crop worthy of harvest, but no one seems to gather the fruit. It litters the ground, feeding birds, squirrels, and the wandering skunks that amble through the neighborhood.
I wonder if it is the production of that fruit that so twists the trees?
It is hard work to be alive.
As I visit within our congregations, I encounter the wizened elders, who sometimes look kind of like those olive trees--gnarled, bent, and sometimes with limbs twisted by age. To listen is to hear the story of the years so apparent.
The people remind me of the trees; the trees remind me of the people.
You begin to see how God created all things interconnectedly. You begin to discern the relationship between ourselves and creation. You begin to notice that how we treat one colors how the others live. The trees suffer if the neighborhood suffers. The neighborhood suffers if the trees suffer.
Let the frozen wrestling of an olive tree stop you long enough to awaken to someone who needs you.
Everything and everyone does so much better if met with compassion.
the world, and those who live in it
--Psalm 24:1
One of the great discoveries in moving to Sacramento has been the plethora of beautiful trees. There are oak trees of several kinds; orange, lemon, and pomegranate trees; all sorts of palm tree; maples; gum; too many pines to name (but redwoods are a particular favorite--especially the ones that seem like free will anarchists along city streets); but the tree that continually captures my attention is the olive.
Olives, like the dogwoods of my native South, are a small tree and most often sport trunks twisted into all kinds of knots that send spindly arms up to the sun where they spread a canopy of small, deep green, almost waxy leaves.
They also drop olives seemingly all the time.
But it is that twisted trunk that captivates me. It is like the tree wrestled itself into being. Even though an olive is firmly fixed in place, looking at one is an observance of motion. There is so much action in that trunk. You begin to believe that if you sat an watched an olive long enough, you would see the dance that is frozen in place come to life.
The branching arms that rise above are shaped by the gnarled trunk. There are no straight limbs, but all the branches appear slightly arthritic. It is as if all that captured motion unfolds with each upward inch of growth.
My neighborhood had to have been an olive orchard once. The trees are too orderly in their arrangement. In spots, you can still see the pattern of rows as ten or twelve trees line up in parallel columns of five or six. They still produce a crop worthy of harvest, but no one seems to gather the fruit. It litters the ground, feeding birds, squirrels, and the wandering skunks that amble through the neighborhood.
I wonder if it is the production of that fruit that so twists the trees?
It is hard work to be alive.
As I visit within our congregations, I encounter the wizened elders, who sometimes look kind of like those olive trees--gnarled, bent, and sometimes with limbs twisted by age. To listen is to hear the story of the years so apparent.
The people remind me of the trees; the trees remind me of the people.
You begin to see how God created all things interconnectedly. You begin to discern the relationship between ourselves and creation. You begin to notice that how we treat one colors how the others live. The trees suffer if the neighborhood suffers. The neighborhood suffers if the trees suffer.
Let the frozen wrestling of an olive tree stop you long enough to awaken to someone who needs you.
Everything and everyone does so much better if met with compassion.
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