When I was very young, we took many small day trips, to places like Santa’s Workshop and the Enchanted Forest in the Adirondacks. I remember going to Wellesley Island, which is technically still in New York state, but on the St Lawrence right on the Canadian border. I remember seeing the river in all its majesty – crossing the 1000 Island bridge entrance to the island just before the border crossing. The river was huge in my young eyes, and in fact, it really IS huge and beautiful; it is truly a sight to behold. I remember riding in my mom’s station wagon, windows down, music playing, the wind rushing in smelling of the river and fresh air and sunshine. I think what cements that memory the most is the memory of being stung by a bee. A bee just innocently flying by got sucked into the crosswinds of the car, landed on me and stung my ear – like a piercing. I shrieked, my mom got mad because I scared her – then was empathetic and pulled over to be sure I was ok. I remember going to Panther Lake, where my aunt and uncle had a camp, going to Hyde Lake every year with a group of my parents’ friends in the fire department. And always, Black Lake. My aunt Leona had an old camp up there that she bought in the 1950’s. It was 2 hours northeast of Phoenix, where I grew up, and as a kid the ride seemed so much longer than when I could drive myself there later on in my teens. My mom would pack us up when we were little, drive north and we would sleep in old surplus army tents set up close to the lake. We used an old outhouse, and we bathed in the lake with Prell shampoo and bars of floating Ivory Soap. To this day the smell of old canvas, campfires and Ivory soap take me back to those days, and I now and then buy Prell shampoo to bring back the memories. My cousins and I would pile all together at night in the tents like puppies to sleep and our moms would drink their cocktails around the campfire. It was rustic and glorious. After my parents’ divorce, we still went to Hyde Lake, and we still visited Black Lake, and my dad and Carole ended up buying our camp off Mitchell Rd (always and forever known to us as The Lake). For all my youth and teenaged years summers at Black Lake were truly magical. We could swim, fish (but, if we caught them and kept them, we had to clean them, and my aunt would freeze them for poor-man’s-shrimp when enough of those tiny fish were gathered, so, the older we got the less we fished there were more important ways to spend our days!). We would at first row around our little cove, until we were gifted small outboard motors which allowed us the freedom to be kids on a lake, exploring every nook and cranny we felt like exploring. We would roam the dusty old unpaved roads, venturing off into the woods and exploring the rocky surfaces scratched out and left behind by ancient glaciers. At first, we lived in a travel trailer, upgraded to a single wide trailer, and then it evolved into a double wide. The Lake is still a glorious place to me; it is my safe-haven, my slowing-down place. It is home and it is in my heart and my soul.
One of the best parts of Black Lake is the old willow down at the water’s edge. Years ago, a swing with a heavy chain was installed and it is one of the first places I go when I get back to the lake and I can kick off my shoes and drift down barefoot, connecting to the earth again. It makes my soul smile. The ancient, huge willow at the water’s edge – I call her Grandma Willow, has seen well over a century of seasons. We know she dates to pre-Civil War; when we first began clearing the property one of my family members discovered documents near her base that date back to those days; I have no idea where those documents are now, but it is a true family legend that they exist, and that Grandma Willow is very old. Imagine if she could tell stories, what she could tell?
I love laying on the ground under her branches and looking up to the sky. She spreads her arms like a giant hug hovering over me, and she brings me comfort and joy. I imagine myself sinking into the ground under her, sinking down into her roots where she clings to life in the cold earth where the bedrock meets the water and her tentacles of life stretching far and wide under me like a superhighway filled with nutrients to heal and help her continue to grow. She has lost some large limbs over the years; branches folded and cracked under the extreme cold and snow of the northern tier of New York state just a few miles from the Canadian border. She sheds small limbs often, yet every year she puts out new limbs and leaves, persistently clinging to life. She is magical, consistent, constant in an ever changing, fast-paced world.
“I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. I feel as if this tree knows everything I ever think of when I sit here. When I come back to it, I never have to remind it of anything; I begin just where I left off.”
― Willa Cather, O Pioneers!
I recently came across this anonymous quote – “Accept what is, let go of what was, and have faith in what will be.” It seems to me that there is comfort in Grandma Willow knowing everything I think, as she holds space for me. In a constantly changing fast-paced world it is perfection to sit a bit under Grandma Willow’s branches and accept what is and to let go of what was. Grandma Willow brings me comfort and hope. Last time I was home I gathered a few pieces of bark she had shed. It is here in my home, on my small devotional altar. She continues to bring me joy, wisdom and comfort and helps me cope with this world, until I can be in her living presence again.
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