Under The Great Beech Tree

From my bedroom window I could see the park, with the beautiful beech trees standing watch over the squirrels and the birds. I watched the steady eternal march of the seasons leach the colour from the leaves and turn the chorus of the birds into the winter din, then give it all back again. I saw brown turn to green; green turn to red; red turn to yellow, and yellow turn to brown. In winter I saw the snowflakes fall. Come spring I heard the unsure whines of the fox cubs who lived under the great beech tree. When summer finally got its grip on the land and the grass dried out, I saw the children playing under the shade of the great plane tree. And then with the arrival of autumn, I saw the squirrels dance.

Walking through the park I heard the soft rustle of the bountiful amber leaves, turn to a crunch of the grass, frozen in the depths of winter, turn to the timid scent of the first rose, and then to the crickets' cries on a warm evening.

I must have been about nine when I reached the top of the great green beech of Nea's Hill. I can remember clenching my father's hand so tight and desperately begging him to let me climb. Quite rightly he refused to let me run off and climb it, and being nine I quickly got caught up in the wonders of some insect or something. The need to climb the tree faded quickly with the passing seasons, and combined with my ever busier school life, I soon forgot. It was only when I was seventeen that I did finally climb the tree. It was the end of summer, and a storm had just passed. I don't really know why I was in the woods as, truth be told, the small woods surrounding Nea's Hill had lost the interest they once held to me. But, as I walked through the woods my lungs were filled by the same sweet smells I smelled the first time, and when the tree stood before me and I felt its soft wet bark under my skin, that same feeling that I felt in me when I was nine came back to me. Ten minutes later I found myself on the highest branch that could hold me, and I stared out over my small world. At that moment all my seventeen years played before my eyes, and not in the sense that I was dying, but as if I was born again. I saw the quite carpark where I first peddled without my stabilizers and I saw the gateway to my secondary school that I walked through on that humid September day years gone by. I ran out of that same gate five years later on a windy august day with all my results in hand, never feeling so free and excited for what was to come. And that is how I would describe to you how it felt to climb the great green beech tree on Nea's hill, I felt free as I'd never felt before.

The great green beach was cut down while I was away at university and I can distinctly remember driving through the park on a winter's afternoon on my way home and seeing it reduced to just a stump. The next day I walked out to see for myself the sad stump that she had been reduced to, and as the snow began to fall, I quietly mourned my loss, our loss, for the world has turned its back on nature, on the cycle of life and death. It has failed to respect the original mother and chooses to mask it with nylon plants.

I have travelled far and wide now, and have seen the great northern forests and the Amazon, to name a few. Yet, whilst they were stunning, they never truly did hold the same magic to me as the park I could see from my bedroom window does. So, as I watch my son run into the distance in search of his great green tree, a part of me mourns for what he shall never have, but another hopes that he will find his great green beech of Nea's Hill, and that he will have the same attachment to it, as I did to her all those years ago. In the distance I see a little figure returning to me, "That was quick", I think to myself. He says nothing, and with a beam on his face, he takes my hand and brings me running into the woods with him. The path seems familiar to me, very familiar indeed. In fact, it is the path that I ran one spring day long ago. He stops and gestures up a hill towards a knot of a tree. And as I climb its ruff wet bark, I realise that this mysterious knot is my dear tree. We climb it together, and whilst she is nowhere as tall as she used to be I feel the same sort of joy that I did all those years ago. I feel the joy you feel after finding that photo of you and your friends from a good day many years ago, after believing it lost. You'd given up hope; you'd come to terms with the loss, but finding it was too overwhelming to keep it to yourself.

They say that the art of losing isn't hard to master, but then it is really, isn't it? You just don't know how much you had until it's gone.

In some ways I would say that we are getting so lost in the art of losing that we have given up.

I for one don't want to see my grandchildren playing in a park full of polyester plants.

And so I pray that we do not forget our other mother.

I pray that when I look out of my bedroom window in 40 years I will still see the park. With the beautiful beech trees standing watch over the squirrels and the birds, and that the steady eternal march of the seasons will still leach the colour from the leaves and turn the chorus of the birds into the winter din, then give it all back again. I pray that I will witness brown turn to green; green turn to red; red turn to yellow, and yellow turn to brown. In winter I hope that I will still see the snowflakes fall, and come spring I hope that I will still hear the unsure whines of the fox cubs who will still live under the great beech tree. And that when summer finally gets its grip on the land once again and the grass dries out I will see the children playing under the shade of the great plane tree. And then with the arrival of autumn, I pray that I see the squirrels dance again, again, and again.