A Big Personality

I loved climbing trees as a kid. What an adventure – finding my way up and through the maze of limbs and examining the rooftops of neighboring homes feeling like I was being let in on some secret.

As an adult, I don’t climb trees anymore (well, almost never), but I connect with them in different ways. Walking under their arms. Taking in their scent. Gently touching their bark as I pass. Listening to their voices in the wind.

I recall having a real affinity for a tree when I was visiting the Biltmore Estate in North Carolina many years ago. On this particular day, I didn’t go into the mansion. I went there specifically just to walk through the gardens. There was a large Purple Beech tree just down the hill at the side of the majestic drive, and I sat under it for a break in the shade. I had a powerful feeling of gratitude for the life of the tree and how each leaf threaded together to make an umbrella for me. I remember closing my eyes and meditating in some way. I didn’t want to leave it’s shelter. I suppose it was the first time I came to understand that trees were sacred. They are incredible symbols of life, living, and death.

Earlier this year while visiting Paul and Amy, two of Tim’s and my best friends, we took our usual walk in the woods behind their home. There are several hiking trails, and it was as green and lush as a North Carolina forest would be in the spring. It is always quiet there, and I will speak for each of us and say, I know we find a lot of peace in those trees, and Tim always did as well.

Paul mentioned that a few weeks earlier, he had come across a very large tree that had fallen, and it had been on his mind. We walked down the same trail and found the tree about a mile in.  We paused there  for a while studying the beauty of the tree, estimating its age, and wondering what had happened to what appeared to be a healthy tree.

Later that evening as Paul and I sat quietly on their deck, satisfied from a great meal and a glass of red wine, he shared what he’d been ruminating on for a while. Paul talked about how as people age they may die more naturally. We gradually slow down, the body weakens and often becomes diseased in some way. This is also true for an old tree that begins to disintegrate and fades back into the earth. Dust to dust. There is less destruction in this type of death. The death of this tree has a lower impact as it slowly crumbles. Although we never want to lose a tree, a life. We expect death with age. We do know that it’s coming.

But the tree he had found in the woods, it wasn’t that old. It appeared healthy. That big tree was symbolic of Tim.

People have described Tim as having a big personality. I never said that about him, but many others did. In a room of people, he generally didn’t take up a lot of space, but if you were near him, you would see and feel the punch. And the more you got to know Tim, you would recognize that “bigness.” I think it came from all the energy he put towards what he loved, the action potential (Revisit my post: It’s about time), his way of thinking through all kinds of things, and the generosity that came from his very big heart.

The first time I shared with Tim that a colleague of mine had said he had a “big personality”, his face lit up. I think mainly because he spent so much time in his head and often saw himself as pensive and misunderstood. But he wanted to be seen.  I was the one person who saw more of his quiet, but looking back, I certainly know that, yes, it was true. His personality was big. Like that tree.

So things happen, and even the big trees come down. We don’t always know why. The foundation may be weak, perhaps not well rooted. There may be an underlying disease. There is wind and lightening. And by all accounts even when that big tree looks mighty and invincible, storms happen. Yes they do. And when it falls, with those extended limbs that are reaching out to shade and shelter, things in its path may be damaged or destroyed. The big strike, the unexpected fall of the tree, causes trauma in its wake.

There was a lot of damage surrounding the fall of this big tree. Those smaller trees, branches from other trees, all within its reach. Many snapped, broken or taken down. This is like the sudden and unexpected end of a life. The end of plans for the future. Those moments that I thought Tim would be there for. The role he would play in other’s lives – his daughter, his patients, his family, friends, and those he was so incredible at mentoring. Those lines were severed unexpectedly. Those limbs were broken when the big tree toppled.

Paul also pointed out that there was one medium-sized tree right next to the big one. He said, Yve this is you.

After this poignant discussion, I had to go back to that tree. I had a very brief opening the following day, and I ran the mile to the fallen tree. I examined it, walked on it, and sat with it. I cried, and I took photos. And yes, there was the medium sized tree standing right next to the one with the big personality, just as Paul said. It was even the shape of a “Y”.

Tim the big tree. Me the medium tree. During our shared life, I had been comforted by the expanse of Tim’s branches. I was the beneficiary of his oxygen. I was also sometimes overshadowed, fighting for my own sunlight. My own branches were occasionally knocked asunder from the sway and the reach of that big tree. But always, I was there looking up, admiring this majestic life.

In the fall of the big tree, the top of the medium tree had been knocked off. But it was still standing. It was rooted. It was grounded. As Paul said, strong, but not unbroken, forever changed, and still growing.