The Beech
Letter VI ~ Early Autumn
Dear Yggdrasil,
Today I am entering the lake. Water droplets shatter the surface, creating millions of radiating fractals, splitting infinitely like chain reaction toward the beach. The icy cold breaks even through my wet suit, seeping into my bones. Only a few short weeks ago I swam in the beautiful Thames, floating for hours, not bothering to bring a towel. Even on bad days I would push myself to go, to experience the joy of the cool water against my skin. But I am far north now and it is no longer summer.
Fungi sprout from every corner and ferns revel in the cool, soft moss. They have been ready long and the descent towards darkness has begun.
The mountains are cloaked now, shrouded in deep mist, so their conversations may go unheard by those below. I have been happy here, a welcome guest, but it is time to go. The fells are preparing for winter but we have a whole season yet, and I must return to you.
Through you I have found myself and learned that the beech is my tree. I have met many like you and yet unlike. We have our stories and memories but you showed me who I am and now whenever I meet another, I think of you.
Sometimes I do not know whether it is rain or mist that veils everything here, softening and creating distance. It feels safe at times, and yet it cannot last. I need to see the sun on your leaves again.
I really enjoy your writing, Lucy. The sentence starting "Water droplets shatter the surface....." is beautiful. I love your description of the water!
The house I grew up in had an enormous red beech which stood taller than all four floors and its chimneys. One branch extended to my bedroom window as if it grew with me through the years so that when I was tall enough to peer and reach out it was waiting to shake my hand. As I grew taller I became able stick my head out the window and pick a leaf off each morning. A wall ran alongside the house that so that I could climb from my window when I was taller still: onto the wall, following the outstretched arm in a daring balancing act which led to its body where I would cling onto the trunk, tired and protected. I think I still compare every outstretched hand, every greeting I am offered to that of the beech tree, and feel hollow if it does not supply that same intensity of warmth and welcome.