tree-drunk

Having just finished rereading The Overstory by Richard Powers for the 3rd time (full disclosure: I listened to the audiobook this go-around), I find myself gazing at trees more than I usually do (which is a lot) as I move through the world. One species has jumped out at me these past three weeks: catalpa trees. In Western, Pennsylvania, in early Summer, the catalpa trees bloom from trunk to crown. Their fragrant white flowers, dotted purple and yellow, fall pell-mell, so even if you are staring at your feet, you might still find and identify a catalpa. Seeing these flowers always jogs a happy memory for me, one from before I really knew trees:

On one of my first adventures into kayaking on the Allegheny River in Pittsburgh, I paddled upstream from the James Sharp Landing toward Lock and Dam No. 2. Nature swirled around, from swallows streaking across the surface taking tiny drinks of water to swarms of minnows rising from the depths and shimmering in the light. The current eased by, beneath me, slow. Rays of bright sunlight penetrated down to the riverbed in the shallows, uncommon for water that is typically murky. A slimy patch floated by, sewage from the overflow pipes near the dam, and I tried to ignore it. Every spring, a heronry forms atop a grand maple on Sixmile Island, so I kept my eyes on the lookout for herons, slender birds that are easily spooked. Killdeer darted around the rocky bank, their sharp chirps echoing. Then, a hallucination: delicate white flowers on the water's slate surface. First one, then a handful, then dozens. I paddled into the snaking white path the fallen flowers formed before me and followed it to its end beneath a towering, old catalpa tree. Dozens of flowers released from their branches all at once and drifted on the warm air before settling on the river. Time passed. It had to. The novelty, the magic, of the moment couldn't last. I continued on my loop around the island and returned to the low-rent marina. The outing ended, but the memory stayed with me.

Today's recommendation: go to a leafy friend and, as Mary Oliver would say, "Stay awhile." For real, I challenge you to find and visit a tree of some variety – if you live in the northeast, maybe you can locate a catalpa. If that's not possible, hug something else green in your life, some alien being you noticed calling to you at some point in the past. (If you do this, feel free to share a picture of the outing with me!) We speed by so many green creatures and so many go unnoticed. I couldn't get a photo of every catalpa that called out to me during my recent journeys, but here are a few photos I took of the ones I did visit.

A description from Trees of North America: A Guide to Field Identification by Golden Field Guides from St. Martin's Press:

BIGNONIA (TRUMPET CREEPER) FAMILY – Northern Catalpa (Catalpa speciosa) leaves are deciduous, long-stemmed, heart-shaped; 10 to 12 inches long and 7 to 8 inches wide, whorled or opposite. Tubular, white flowers, marked with purple and yellow, bloom after leaves develop; they are 2 inches long and 2.5 inches wide, in showy, 5- to 6-inch panicles. Each produces a brown capsule, 9 to 20 inches long and 0.5 to 0.8 of an inch in diameter, containing many fringed seeds about 1 inch long. Brown bark often scaly. To 100 feet and 4 feet in diameter, usually with a short trunk, stout branches, and a broad, rounded crown.

In case that isn't enough about trees for one day (note: can there ever really be enough about trees?!), here's a poem by Mary Oliver to send you on your way.

WHEN I AM AMONG THE TREES
by Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It's simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

indoor animal is curated by a human: Tim Papciak. On Mondays, he shares one link to one music video to help spark creativity in himself and in other creative types. On Thursdays, he recommends a book, movie, show, art piece, or link to some dusty corner of the internet that he believes either 1.) adds to the human experience, or 2.) serves as a coping mechanism in the year 2025. Note: this is not, and never will be, self-help content.