The Think Snowball's Temple
Tonight at youth group, Dan, the youth pastor, was talking about places that are good places for thinking, places we go to mull over ideas or where ideas tend to find us. In these places, "Think Snowballs" (or so he called them, "for lack of a better term") are generated and start rolling, gaining speed as they go, discovering places no one's dared to explore before. (That's the general idea- I know it sounds kind of silly outside of the context of the sermon, but it wasn't, so just bear with me.) The sermon itself didn't even concern this idea, as much as it was his preface to the actual sermon. I realize that it was little more than a rhetorical device when he asked us to think of one of those places that generates Think Snowballs for us, but when he did, one specific place came to mind instantly. Since I haven't thought about this place in a long time, the fact that it- and only it- came to mind was curious fact that stood out to me.
I never told my life story (insert light cough indicating sarcasm) beyond 2001 in "Seuth Efrreekeh", but it seems relevant to do so now. I'll pick up where I left off last, the move to the Seattle area in 2001. In the fall of that year, we stayed in an apartment in Renton while my parents were house-shopping. I remember little of the place, as I was seven years old. (I do remember, however, that it was near Petrovitsky street, because I thought at the time that Petrovitsky was the most amazing name a street could ever have been given.) In mid-October, we moved into our home in southern Issaquah. I grew up there, I have many fond memories from that time, I have many good associations with that place. Suffice to say, I was mortified, horrified, absolutely devastated by the prospect of moving in 2006. Understandably so. Even now, I would move back in a heartbeat (probably due in large to the success of the house we're currently living in). It was beautiful place, though I'd bet its romanticization in my mind certainly helps as well.
There was a big Maple tree in the Northwest corner of our yard, near the road. I loved to climb trees as a child. One of the first things I did when we moved in was to explore the premises, map out our little chunk of woods, name each section of the yard, and most importantly, familiarize myself with each and every tree. The one in the Northwest corner of our front yard was undoubtedly the best one for climbing. It had strong, smooth branches, and it was big enough that one could easily climb two stories up into it. There was a wonderful view of 207th avenue and our front yard, and it was just a few yards' distance from my open window. And- if you'll excuse me- I just cannot help but leave some room to gush that the tree itself is the most beautiful tree I have seen in my life. In the Summer, the sunset lights up each leaf as they blow around in the wind, so that I'd feel as if I were seated in a sea of paper lanterns; in the Fall, it turns flame red and gave us enormous piles of the perfect leaves to jump into. In the Winter, the thick branches would give shelter from the wind as I sat curled up in a blanket on one of the planks I had put up there, staring at the moon through the clouds; in the Spring, each branch turned bright green with new little leaves and the woodpeckers would sit on the branches just a couple feet away, keeping me company.
From the very beginning, I spent a lot of time in that tree, whether alone or with friends; every time I had friends over we would play there. Towards fifth and sixth grade, I suppose we would no longer play in the tree, per say, but it was an excellent venue for conversation. It provided an excuse to get out of the house, where little ears and big ears alike preyed, it provided an excuse to sit around and talk (as eleven-year-old kids generally like to think they're doing something other than just talking. I suppose 'big kids' do this too, it's just that their excuse is hardcore addiction to tea and coffee), it was a comfortable place to be. Each of my friends had their own spot, and I remember exactly where each of them sat to this day. I remember many things that happened in that tree very precisely. It's probably obvious enough by now that it was, and remains, a very special place to me.
My tree was the place I found my Think Snowballs. I discussed the nature of the thoughts themselves briefly in Pocahontianism a few months ago, but the Snowball rolled so much deeper than just that.
The tree was the place I went when I was frustrated or mad or sad or angry, be it with my little brother or my mother or how to do long division and cursive or my friends. I told it everything, even if I wasn't there, physically in it. I'd close my eyes tightly and imagine I were there, so that I could. I remember thinking about how odd this seemed, once, in fifth grade, and asking myself why I would let myself talk to a tree. But the answer came automatically, naturally: I knew I wasn't speaking to the tree itself- otherwise it would never have worked to talk to it from thousands of miles away. I knew I wasn't speaking to the Spirit of the Tree or something to that extent, either- I always believed there was some Spirit everywhere in nature, in the wind, in the ground, present in all substance, really, indoors or out. I knew that I only associated the tree with the Spirit so closely because I felt I could be alone and communicate with it there, because I liked the way it manifested itself there.
Fast forward a few months, perhaps a couple years. I had just returned from the camp I was talking about in Milk. My world was upside down and I felt that life as I had previously known it had disappeared in its entirety. Yet I don't recall ever feeling strange about the way I'd previously thought about the tree and the Spirit I used to meet there. The day I got back from camp, the minute I had closed the door to my room I was out the window, running out over the grass. I reached the top and sat in silence for a few minutes before whispering, as I recall, "I missed this place. I missed you," into the leaves. A few minutes passed where I formed the Snowball in my hands before I whispered again, "Things are gonna have to be pretty different now, aren't they?" Snowball starts down the hill. I suppose it's just thinking about it differently... It gains speed. God, my tree can be your temple. Isn't that what temples are? Places dedicated to you, where we meet you. Now that I'm here, it's almost as if we've met before, as if I've heard you before, but never seen you, never understood. I've misunderstood. You're all over this tree, speaking to me this whole time, and I never saw you, I was never all the way here. But I'm here now, God. I'm listening.
And I had indeed dedicated the place to God, corny or washed-out as the story might sound. It continued to be a place of refuge for me. I continued to bring my worries there, my anger, my pain, my problems, except that I brought my Bible with me sometimes, too. Yes, I certainly had a good hard dose of pre-teenage angst to go with it, but it was an exceptionally hard time for me. Identity, defiance, helplessness, and above all, the deepest loneliness I had known were constantly raining seeds for Snowballs. Countless nights until we moved on November 1st of the same year, I would sit wrapped in a blanket, rolling those Snowballs, except that it was as if they had all been run into a wall that I would never be able to break through.
It was one of my most pained and dearest wishes to have my tree back after the move. Without the sense of escape it had always provided me with, it's understandable that I often felt trapped and distant, as though I could never figure out how to make the snow stick together in my hands.
Nearly four years have passed since that time. I've gotten over it. As I said at the beginning of this entry, I haven't really thought about that tree in a good long time. It does give me a twinge of melancholy to push on that Snowball again, though, even after all this time. That tree used to make such a great 'temple.'
I never told my life story (insert light cough indicating sarcasm) beyond 2001 in "Seuth Efrreekeh", but it seems relevant to do so now. I'll pick up where I left off last, the move to the Seattle area in 2001. In the fall of that year, we stayed in an apartment in Renton while my parents were house-shopping. I remember little of the place, as I was seven years old. (I do remember, however, that it was near Petrovitsky street, because I thought at the time that Petrovitsky was the most amazing name a street could ever have been given.) In mid-October, we moved into our home in southern Issaquah. I grew up there, I have many fond memories from that time, I have many good associations with that place. Suffice to say, I was mortified, horrified, absolutely devastated by the prospect of moving in 2006. Understandably so. Even now, I would move back in a heartbeat (probably due in large to the success of the house we're currently living in). It was beautiful place, though I'd bet its romanticization in my mind certainly helps as well.
There was a big Maple tree in the Northwest corner of our yard, near the road. I loved to climb trees as a child. One of the first things I did when we moved in was to explore the premises, map out our little chunk of woods, name each section of the yard, and most importantly, familiarize myself with each and every tree. The one in the Northwest corner of our front yard was undoubtedly the best one for climbing. It had strong, smooth branches, and it was big enough that one could easily climb two stories up into it. There was a wonderful view of 207th avenue and our front yard, and it was just a few yards' distance from my open window. And- if you'll excuse me- I just cannot help but leave some room to gush that the tree itself is the most beautiful tree I have seen in my life. In the Summer, the sunset lights up each leaf as they blow around in the wind, so that I'd feel as if I were seated in a sea of paper lanterns; in the Fall, it turns flame red and gave us enormous piles of the perfect leaves to jump into. In the Winter, the thick branches would give shelter from the wind as I sat curled up in a blanket on one of the planks I had put up there, staring at the moon through the clouds; in the Spring, each branch turned bright green with new little leaves and the woodpeckers would sit on the branches just a couple feet away, keeping me company.
From the very beginning, I spent a lot of time in that tree, whether alone or with friends; every time I had friends over we would play there. Towards fifth and sixth grade, I suppose we would no longer play in the tree, per say, but it was an excellent venue for conversation. It provided an excuse to get out of the house, where little ears and big ears alike preyed, it provided an excuse to sit around and talk (as eleven-year-old kids generally like to think they're doing something other than just talking. I suppose 'big kids' do this too, it's just that their excuse is hardcore addiction to tea and coffee), it was a comfortable place to be. Each of my friends had their own spot, and I remember exactly where each of them sat to this day. I remember many things that happened in that tree very precisely. It's probably obvious enough by now that it was, and remains, a very special place to me.
My tree was the place I found my Think Snowballs. I discussed the nature of the thoughts themselves briefly in Pocahontianism a few months ago, but the Snowball rolled so much deeper than just that.
The tree was the place I went when I was frustrated or mad or sad or angry, be it with my little brother or my mother or how to do long division and cursive or my friends. I told it everything, even if I wasn't there, physically in it. I'd close my eyes tightly and imagine I were there, so that I could. I remember thinking about how odd this seemed, once, in fifth grade, and asking myself why I would let myself talk to a tree. But the answer came automatically, naturally: I knew I wasn't speaking to the tree itself- otherwise it would never have worked to talk to it from thousands of miles away. I knew I wasn't speaking to the Spirit of the Tree or something to that extent, either- I always believed there was some Spirit everywhere in nature, in the wind, in the ground, present in all substance, really, indoors or out. I knew that I only associated the tree with the Spirit so closely because I felt I could be alone and communicate with it there, because I liked the way it manifested itself there.
Fast forward a few months, perhaps a couple years. I had just returned from the camp I was talking about in Milk. My world was upside down and I felt that life as I had previously known it had disappeared in its entirety. Yet I don't recall ever feeling strange about the way I'd previously thought about the tree and the Spirit I used to meet there. The day I got back from camp, the minute I had closed the door to my room I was out the window, running out over the grass. I reached the top and sat in silence for a few minutes before whispering, as I recall, "I missed this place. I missed you," into the leaves. A few minutes passed where I formed the Snowball in my hands before I whispered again, "Things are gonna have to be pretty different now, aren't they?" Snowball starts down the hill. I suppose it's just thinking about it differently... It gains speed. God, my tree can be your temple. Isn't that what temples are? Places dedicated to you, where we meet you. Now that I'm here, it's almost as if we've met before, as if I've heard you before, but never seen you, never understood. I've misunderstood. You're all over this tree, speaking to me this whole time, and I never saw you, I was never all the way here. But I'm here now, God. I'm listening.
And I had indeed dedicated the place to God, corny or washed-out as the story might sound. It continued to be a place of refuge for me. I continued to bring my worries there, my anger, my pain, my problems, except that I brought my Bible with me sometimes, too. Yes, I certainly had a good hard dose of pre-teenage angst to go with it, but it was an exceptionally hard time for me. Identity, defiance, helplessness, and above all, the deepest loneliness I had known were constantly raining seeds for Snowballs. Countless nights until we moved on November 1st of the same year, I would sit wrapped in a blanket, rolling those Snowballs, except that it was as if they had all been run into a wall that I would never be able to break through.
It was one of my most pained and dearest wishes to have my tree back after the move. Without the sense of escape it had always provided me with, it's understandable that I often felt trapped and distant, as though I could never figure out how to make the snow stick together in my hands.
Nearly four years have passed since that time. I've gotten over it. As I said at the beginning of this entry, I haven't really thought about that tree in a good long time. It does give me a twinge of melancholy to push on that Snowball again, though, even after all this time. That tree used to make such a great 'temple.'
Considering how many people utillize trees as thinking places, I feel that they have a much more important role in this world than just providing oxygen for the lungs...
ReplyDelete