Today I met a willow tree. Now normally you think of a willow as a relatively slender affair (i.e. willowy?) but this old grandmother was so big that it would take two or three of me to embrace it. This tree was OLD. It's branches swayed down over an enormous stretch of ground, providing actual darkness at high noon on a bright June day.
(Darkness means a lot to me. It has something to do with my light-sensitive eyes and very fair skin. It also has to do with the fact that important things show up better in the dark. Like stars.)
When I am asked what tree reminds me of strength, I usually think oak. But here was a willow tree that had outlived most of the oaks in Poughkeepsie. Its bark was gnarled but tiny tender twigs grew out, branches waiting to become.
The thing about willows is that they bend.
The slightest breeze stirs it.
The strongest gale can't tear it down. Because it bends. It yields. The wind wants it to move, and it moves. The oak stands tall, and when it meets with a force it can't resist, it falls. The willow doesn't bother with resistance. It lets itself blow with the wind because it knows its roots will keep it where it belongs. It has time to grow old. To become wise and teach me these things.
When is strength a weakness?
Enigma sings "Don't be afraid to be weak. Don't be too proud to be strong."
When is my fear of giving in the worst fear of all?
When does my fear of taking, of accepting help and protection cause me to die of thirst beside a clear stream?
When does my hatred of my own needs and desires deny not only those urges, but also what I am? When does my determination to be self-reliant warp me in relation to the universe and those around me? Those who love me? I was not made alone.
It is seen in the laws of physics. A body interacts with other bodies. Gravity, magnetism, strong nuclear force, weak nuclear force. Though separated by parsecs of vacuum, two comets dance in a pattern ordained by the lines of force linking every particle in the universe.
I can not cut myself off. And by trying, I create a pull in the entire fabric of what we are.
I give what I have. I take what I need. It sounds idealistic, Marxist. (Maybe he had a clue.) It is not anything I set out to do, only what happens. And if I resist, it will only happen anyway, but with less grace, less control. Friction. Force.
But even the resistance, even the friction are a part of the pattern. Force is one face of beauty. It is also a necessary component of a system that does. Such as the universe. Control is not something that I own. When I try to hold onto it, I only lose it more catastrophically. Catastrophe. Radical, sudden change. Another necessity. Sometimes.
Friction. Uncomfortable, rubs me raw. Rubs off the raw edges, polishes. Another word: traction. To get somewhere you must first grip where you already are. The trick is to grip here and focus there. And to do the same again when there is here again. Movement.
Muscles.
The hip bone's connected to the back bone...
Connections. All is relative.
Tense. Everywhere you felt a stiffening, a pulling, there are muscles tightning. Pull and counterpull, and you remain still, quivering. Movement in stillness. Dynamic tension, equals potential.
Want to see what I mean? Draw a compound bow. You pull, the bow pulls back. The arrow is poised between one force and the other. Resting even as you and the bow overflow with pent up energy waiting for release. Release. Three fingers slip loose and a taut bowstring explodes back to its rest. The arrow flies. Because you let go.
The connections were what allowed it to happen. Bow to bowstring. Arrow nocked. Your fingertips holding the end of the shaft, catching the bowstring back to your jaw. Muscles to tendons, tendons to bones.
The force was what made it happen. Exertion, tension built up and shaped. But tension requires something to tense against.
And to be useful, tension must learn to let go.
A vacuum. It is empty. The whole universe moves to fill it. Moves. Even nothing is useful.
But only if it does not press back against that which yearns to fill it. It will only fail. And the shards of its failure may puncture a good intention or a warm heart.
"Let there be spaces in your togetherness."
Space for movement. For growth. Pressed up against one another, there is no room to reach or to touch.
Let there be walls, but not walls to keep things out. Think of a dam, and what can be done with the water that flows over. What things can live in the still waters that gather behind the walls.
Togetherness is not oneness. It is the essence of twoness. Black and white sharpen each other. Full and empty require each other. High and low define each other. Love should complement, not complete. Fill and be filled, be fulfilled, but do not merge.
Do not be afraid. When your mind was in agitation, and your heart in bleeding knots, you could not act. It is in these times that blindly, you are led. Crippled, you are carried.
And when you think clearly, when your eyes are open and your feet press firmly toward a goal, you are walking that same path.
It may be that by being led, you taught someone to lead. By allowing one to carry you, that one learned to be strong.
When you lean, you are also leaned upon. The balance shifts.
When you collide with another, you shape each other. Particles are moved and passed on. The shapes evolve. You move, shift, twist, and fit. The Shape evolves.