Kristin Camitta Zimet

Lately--because it is winter, or because in my own life it is a time of Wintering—I perceive trees in a new way, one that seems true and Quakerly. I arrive at the simplicity of them. The essential growth form, the story of their lengthening and outflow and endurance, is visible. It is the way I glimpse my own life when I yield my spirit to what trees might know as light but Quakers call “the Light”.

Trees in winter have the beauty and dignity of certain old people whom I cherish. The willingness to go deep and the ease of drawing down. The revealed dimensions, the trust in them. The at-home comfort with time, the assurance of being received, that marks my Elders. The lovely reciprocity between upreach and downreach, growth and rest. 

Lately when I walk or drive into or out of my neighborhood, the trees show me that my movement, my busy errand, is simply one of many rhythmic exchanges of which all life is made.

So I go slower. I make, not a dash, but a progress through the beauty of trees. An astonishing sycamore, a special willow, and an amazing white oak stand as tutelary spirits of my neighborhood. I rest in the blessing of their bare open arms, as in another season I will rest in their leafy murmurous shade. They make a context for the other lives around them, just as Quaker elders supply a ground and a canopy of silence. With the intensity of their presence, it is said, they “hold space”—for worship, or for business, or for the whole sorry, messy, feverish human enterprise.