Stumbling on Enchantment

I suppose the feeling I get when I climb these mountains is a sense of wonder that comes from discovering ancient trees clinging to rocks in the most remote and unusual places.

It’s as if I’ve entered a vast cathedral filled with silent saints, sentinels and preachers, all of whom are trying to tell me something.

These ancient trees pull me upward, one after another. A twisted trunk catches my eye, their branches stretching out as if inviting me into their world.

Beyond it, another tree reaches over a shelf of granite. Then another appears farther up, and I find myself wondering how they ever took root there. How, through centuries of the harshest weather, have they continued to grow, survive and thrive up here?

I keep going.

Whatever destination I had in mind at the start of my hike begins to lose its importance. I’m wandering now, drawn from one extraordinary life to the next. Gladly getting lost. Certainly losing track of time.

Stumbling on enchantment.

There’s something about these encounters that makes me feel both more alive and less important. I want to photograph everything, but sometimes I have to lower the camera like Sean Penn's character in The Secret Life of Walter Mitty when he explains his philosophy on presence and beauty. The frame can wait. I need a moment to take in what’s happening before me and in my head.

What are these trees telling me? What is it I need to know?

I bring those questions with me, along with the company of writers whose words have urged me to pay more attention: Ernest Hemingway, William Blake, Hermann Hesse, Walt Whitman, Katherine May, Rachel Carson. Their books have opened doors.

Up here, I get to walk through them.

The Junipers offer no explanations. Still, I find myself listening and wondering. What could they be telling me if they could talk?

Patience

I look at a trunk that has thickened through seasons I can barely imagine. Even the berries ask us to reconsider our hurry. Those little blue treasures, nestled among the branches, can take two years to ripen.

Two years. For a ripe berry…

How often do I become impatient with something because it hasn’t happened in a week, a month, or a year?

Here stands a life shaped by increments too small to watch, taking the time it needs to bring something to fruition.

I wonder how much I miss by expecting growth to announce itself.

Resilience

These trees bear the marks of their exposure. Some have broken limbs, hollow places, great twists in their wood. Some even appear to be screaming in anguish with wounds and scars from challenges we couldn't possibly imagine.

Yet they have no quit in them.

They're the ultimate survivors.

And their beauty holds the evidence.

I recognize something of our own lives in that.

We carry losses. We make adjustments. We discover ways forward that we would never have chosen at the beginning. Hemingway had an interesting take on it. He could easily have been writing about an ancient Juniper:

"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry."

~ Ernest Hemingway

Humility 

Humility comes easily in their presence.

Standing beside an ancient Juniper Tree, I feel the brevity of my own visit. My concerns are still real, but they seem small and insignificant in the shade of these great trees. The mountain gives them room. And I can breathe better around them too. There’s relief in belonging to a world so much larger than the one inside our head.

Courage

I see it in the improbable foothold. In roots disappearing into a narrow opening in granite. Of course, a tree doesn’t deliberate as we do. Yet its presence makes me question how often I wait for ideal conditions before beginning something that matters.

Generosity

A little shade. A place for birds to perch. Shelter among branches. Berries held out into the mountain air. This tree, growing with so little, contributes so much to the lives around it.

I think about what I have to offer. About whether I’m offering it. And what my excuses are for not giving back more to my community.

Forgiveness

I wouldn’t suggest that these trees are forgiving to the storms, or the insects, or the pathogens, or the wildfires that threaten them.

"Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree."

~ Hermann Hesse

But beside their weathered trunks, I wonder what it would mean to carry my history and my day with less bitterness, with less criticism. To allow an old wound its place without giving it every room in the house.

The scars can remain and there can still be healthy growth.

Eventually, I turn toward home. I haven’t solved the mysteries of these trees, and I suspect I’ve heard some of what I needed to hear in their silence.

But something has shifted.

I’ve spent a few hours looking closely at lives I could easily have walked past. I’ve felt wonder become attention, and attention become affection for these majestic beauties.

I’ll return with my camera and my questions.

But for now, I carry this one down the mountain:

What might grow in my life if I gave it this much attention?

***

All photographs by Michael Kennedy (unless otherwise noted) / BlueWolfGallery.com

I’m Michael Kennedy, a resident of Olympic Valley, CA (in photo above with Nicola and Boo). I’m a writer and photographer and I love exploring nature and getting lost along the way. We live in a world that demands our attention and I just want to say thank you for your attention. If you enjoyed this post, please share this with a friend. For more photos and stories visit BlueWolfGallery.com.