Sit beneath its branches, the Celts believed, and you will find inspiration in the wind whispering through weeping willows. Poets write there, artists find inspiration, psychics dream many dreams. Sit beneath its branches, and you will be enveloped, hidden. Your heart, that part of you that creates, will be played like a harp to some unaccountable melody. Or so they say.
Never having sat beneath one, I can’t quite be certain. I do know that weeping willows bend, but rarely break. I know that theirs are some of the first leaves to turn green in the spring. I see them often, now, tiny leaves collected on long branches, glowing almost lime green against an otherwise brown backdrop. They ripple, even when I can’t feel a breeze. They dance alone. Around here, I don’t see them by water too often. Yet, they are commonly found by lakes, their roots perfectly at home and content in the soggiest soil, their tops leaning, leaning further to touch fingertips to an almost-still mirror.
And they weep, you know. Their branches curve sadly, dripping long, flat leaves forlornly. They are drooping heads, slumped shoulders, downcast eyes. They are too heavy to stand up straight, too wispy to fall over. They are sinking into wet earth to reach for life water offers so that somehow, someway, they can survive. They are me when we found out Dad was gone. They are my back curved, my arms draping over my mother’s shoulder, my head aching, eyes dripping.
Some flower, though, like the weeping cherry tree. Some blossom delicately and slouch like pouty little girls in pink, fluffy dresses. These are the weeping willows that really enchant me. They are whimsical, story-tellers. I smile at them because they always make me grin, and no matter how many times I see these weeping trees, I cannot look away. They are lovely, loving, lacy. They are so very hopeful, that I perk up. I lift my head, square my shoulders, take in a deep breath, and dry my eyes. They are spring, you see, in all its newness. They surprised me with their joy every single time.
Aimee,
ReplyDeleteI'm so glad that you find joy in a "weeping" tree...The only willow that are in our valley, are always found near water, especially the lakes. They do move, as you say, even if I am unaware of a breeze. They are full of movement.
I appreciate too, your sense of connection with these trees. I wrote a while ago about the old apple tree that continues to blossom each Spring, untended. It is a model of resilience, to me. I often think of whoever planted that tree, those long years ago...they believed in a tomorrow. Just like you.
All the best to you Aimee, on this journey of yours away from your heartbreak...into solace and light.
I like your reference to Celts in this piece that celebrates what's poetic about the willow. Your descriptions are great--the "storytellers" with "drooping shoulders," e.g. I also appreciate just how you've articulated the relationship that you've developed with this particular tree and, as you say, the "surprise" they illicit from your observation of "their joy."
ReplyDeleteAimee, like the other commenters, I really love your connection to weeping willows. I enjoy that you subvert the "normal" perspective of them (even in their name they are sad!) by showing something different: their joy.
ReplyDeleteYou have some really great snippets in here: the Celts is a great way to pull your readers in, and it makes me want to go sit under a weeping willow, which I've never done, but may do next time I go to the cemetery! I am also fond of you personification of the tree, to show how we as humans aren't so different and can actually relate to it. And your second paragraph, the description, is really rich. Fantastic job, as usual!
The surprise here, and your lyricism, make this decidedly different take on a familiar aspect of the natural world. There are some excellent, poetic moments here.
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