Bob Wittersheim (13:22)

And.

Kathryn Nicolai (13:22)

Eventually I was under the golden dome of blooming willow branches. I'd read somewhere that willows have other names. Sometimes they are called sallows or osiers, and I liked the way both of those words felt in my mouth. Fossils of them have been found, dating to some 40 or 50 million years ago. That's how long they have been early to mark the spring and drape over water. A willow branch, when broken off, can simply be stuck in the ground, and it will often produce a whole new tree. What a survivor, I thought as I got closer and reached out to place my palm on its trunk. I closed my eyes and drew deep breaths through my nose. I imagined pulling a bit of whatever was in the tree, whatever made it, who and what it was, into me, its strength and adaptability, its protective attitude and hopeful early bloom. I noticed how it felt in my chest and belly, in my legs and fingers, looked for any spots that felt stopped up. Patiently, I kept my hand on the tree and my breath circling, and soon my highways were clear, my back roads wide open. I opened my eyes and let my palm fall away from the bark, turned and leaned my back against it. I was calmed, quieted, nothing to search for or achieve. I just was as the tree and the water were the willow tree. It isn't just that the willow is the first tree each spring to sprout leaves, though certainly that is a glimmer I go looking for each year to see the light yellow haze, like a flaxen fog hovering in its branches. And it isn't just the way its long, draping limbs dip leaves into the lake, like a beaded viridescent curtain that I can slide through on my kayak as if passing into a magic world. Though those things are already a lot for a tree to gift the world for me, it is the way a willow seems to curl around you. There is something protective in its architecture. It's a place to shelter in the rain, to cool off on a sunny day, to hide away and read or just be with something bigger than you. To feel small and safe under its umbrella. I tracked across the broad open land on my way to the willow tree. The ground was springy and damp, the grass just beginning to show green again, and I'd worn my tall boots in case of any flooded spots. The snow had been gone for just a week or two, but the sun had been shining so brightly each day that it felt like we were riding downhill towards summer. In just my jeans and a sweater, I felt warmed through as I trod over the bare ground. Even this far off, I could smell the lake. The fresh scent of water, clear and mineral, just released from the ice, was in every breath I took. The steady plod of my feet.

Bob Wittersheim (20:34)

And.

Kathryn Nicolai (20:34)

Rising color in my cheeks made me feel like I was syncing up with the natural world around me. Of course, I am nature myself.

Bob Wittersheim (20:58)

And.

Kathryn Nicolai (20:59)

Can never really be unstitched from that fabric. But after months inside, after weeks, with barely a glimpse of the sun or more than a few moments in the open air, you can feel like old friends who've gone far too long without a catch up. So I was breathing deep, opening my eyes and ears to all that I could. A breeze began to nudge my hat from my head and I reached up and swiped it off. The warmth of the sunlight, the cool breeze around my temples. What a gift the world was today. In the distance, the willow tree was gaining size and detail. When I'd set out, it was just an indistinct dark spot on the horizon, the lake a broad shimmer. Now I could hear the ripple of water at the shore and the creaking of breaking ice further out. I turned a bit, deciding to go first to the water, then to my tree. Ah, to be alone in a place like this. The land rose, then dipped down in sandy spots at the edge of the lake, and I stood at the high point, looking down and looking out. Driftwood and scraps of tumbled grass.

Bob Wittersheim (24:00)

And.

Kathryn Nicolai (24:00)

Dead leaves dotted the sand. Tiny trails ran through and around all of it, birds and small Animals had left their mark. A lone bench sat on the bluff, and I found my way to it, stretching my legs out, crossing my ankles, tipping my head back to let the sun warm my face. Sometimes we get caught up in questions about what it all means, what we are meant to be achieving, where we are meant to end up and by what age and with what accolades. But what if just living is the point? What if we are like the birds and the trees without a why, just alive because we are? On the far side of the lake, a gaggle of geese paddled through the water, and I wondered if they had stayed through the winter or just returned from a few months away. My brain, so used to jumping ahead or floundering in the past, now stayed longer and longer with the sense sounds and sights. I let my heart rate slow, found myself sighing and even yawning. I turned on the bench, slinging my arm over its back and looking toward the willow tree. The breeze tossed my hair over my eyes when I smiled as I tucked the strands behind my ears. It was 40ft tall if it was an inch, and the span of its branches looked just as wide. I pushed up to my feet, started toward it. There were stepping stones dotted along the bluff, and I followed them, stretching out my stride to nearly leaps and places. They led away from the water.

Bob Wittersheim (28:14)

And.

Kathryn Nicolai (28:15)

Eventually I was under the golden dome of blooming willow branches. I'd read somewhere that willows have other names. Sometimes they are called sallows or osiers, and I liked the way both of those words felt in my mouth. Fossils of them have been found, dating to some 40 or 50 million years ago. That's how long they have been early to mark the spring and drape over water. A willow branch, when broken off, can simply be stuck in the ground.

Bob Wittersheim (29:32)

And.

Kathryn Nicolai (29:32)

It will often produce a whole new tree. What a survivor, I thought as I got closer and reached out to place my palm on its trunk. I closed my eyes and drew deep breaths through my nose. I imagined pulling a bit of whatever was in the tree, whatever made it, who and what it was, into me, its strength and adaptability, its protective attitude and hopeful early bloom. I noticed how it felt in my chest and belly, in my legs and fingers, and looked for any spots that felt stopped up. Patiently, I kept my hand on the tree and my breath circling, and soon my highways were clear, my back roads wide open. I opened my eyes and let my palm fall away from the bark, turned and leaned my back against it. I was calmed, quieted, nothing to search for or achieve. My just was as the tree and the water were sweet dreams.