Away

From the asphalt parking lot of Kenilworth Junior High School it just looks like a suggestion of vegetation behind peeling, steel containers; from the windows of the trailers that make up the math wing classrooms, adjacent to the asphalt parking lot of Kenilworth Junior High School, it just looks like another clump of low trees and bushes; from the flooded football field behind the trailers that make up the math wing classrooms, that were adjacent to the asphalt parking lot of Kenilworth Junior High School, it just looks like a sickened tree growing from the herbicide intoxicated waters of the ditch that dip low near the tree; because that is what it is supposed to look like to most, just another suggestion of a low tree or bush or shrub nourished by polluted waters.

A football player running, sliding, falling, across the muddy football field would not notice my little sanctuary; from the yellow painted goal posts it would appear to the score keeper to be another family of bushes and trees, similar to the many that can be seen on the hills. Following the ditch that separates the football field from the vineyard the maintenance worker would pass it unaware of its significance. But I walk across the football field barefooted, feeling the cold mud squish in between my toes, and I notice, I follow the ditch, like a path, to behind the green painted, steel container, and I am aware.

Here, at the farthest corner of the field, there is a hazardous slope of worn mud and moss that leads down into the ditch of muddied water. Crouching I allow myself to slide down the slope, my toes dig into the mud, stabilizing myself so I do not fall face first into the vineyard runoff water of the ditch. Delicately stepping over the stream of water from the ditch, an avalanche of stones creates a path into a small opening in the thick wall of leaves and branches; the door way is invisible to observers on the fields.

Stepping into the door way of my sanctuary, refuge,my haven reveals itself: the exterior bush and treelike appearance is an allusion created by one massive tree, whose limbs and leaves reach sky ward before falling back to hit the ground creating a room in the space it leaves. The branches shield the inside from the rest of the world. It is a place that existed on its own – away from infuriated scowls and disapproving pouts, prying eyes and judging squints, disbelieving shakes of the head and disappointed sagging shoulders – it is apart from the rest of the world, an island floating on its own while the rushing, frothing river of time parted around it. Here I let go. I breathe. I am.

Upon entering the first detail noticed is the sound of falling water, rushing, tumbling, cascading, down and down, until where its free fall is interrupted and some of it sheds into mist, while the rest continues its journey into a steady, splashing stream circling, winding, outlining the perimeter of the leafy room. The constant, melodious rhythm of the uneven sound of the water falling and hitting rock and flowing in its stream blocks the droning clamor and din of the outside world. And I am alone. The smell of wet dirt, decaying leaves underfoot, and rain enveloped me; it was the smell of serenity and green and healing and calm and growth and nature and being really, fully alive. Every step I take into the tree’s embrace brings a rush of the earth’s perfume to me; the leaves upon leaves upon leaves are breaking down underfoot creating fertile soil for new plants to live and die, in a never ending cycle.
In the very entrance of the room of branches, under vines and fallen leaves, a dead, rusting hunk of metal lies still and unmoving; the flaking orange and brown of the metal contrasts with the lively green of the seedlings whose new leaves curiously reach out to touch the metal; bolts have rusted into the metal, the edges of the metal object, that may have been a car or a wheelbarrow or a container or a boat or a table, are frayed. Because of its age and its rust it is unrecognizable to be anything other than the metal piece it is now; its hides its mystery of what it is or how it got there, like everything else in that space, it instead just is.

Underfoot, the decaying leaves stop and give way to pebbles, sand, and bits of brick. Occasionally littered in the sand there are flashes of blue and green and brown and clear; shards of glass bottles softened like beach glass by rain and wind. Large squares of cement blocks are scattered around the base of the tree and increase in number closer to the wall that separates the tree’s enclosure and the vineyards beyond. The cement blocks, like the metal object, are decrepit and crumbling; moss covers and clings to the cement, Mother Nature taking back the stone mankind took from her womb. Some of the cement blocks are islands in the stream that circles the miniature room under the tree; the source of the swift little stream is the cascading water fall created by a stream in a coulee of the vineyard that ends and flows over the wall that separates both worlds. On the pebbly floor of the room of the tree, a bundled Mexican blanket lies unraveling; dirt, decay, and sunlight have taken the once vivid colors of a passionate red, delicate green and gay yellow; the blanket shows escape, running from the troubles of the real world someone found sanctuary.

The centerpiece, the base, the foundation of the entire refuge is the tree, the wise, strong tree. Its roots are raised above the ground, thick and twisting they interconnect to create different levels, perfect for climbing up into the tree. The branches hang low and perpendicular to the ground; one snakes across the entrance of the tree created room at waist height, the exact height to perch on with a friend to whisper secrets the old tree will never tell. The branches and roots and trunk of the tree are covered in a mint green colored lichen, the soft moss always growing on the east side, where the sun rises. High on one of the branches, etched forever into the tree is a small, crude heart, the only initial recognizable is a faint “J”; it too has been covered in lichen but forever remains, scarred in the tree, as a tribute to foolish young love. Hanging from one of the highest branches is a timeworn, fraying rope, the knots that run down it have grown into the rope over the many years; it hangs waiting for another to swing from it again. Embedded into the tree in random spots are bent, rusting nails, an attempt to try to tame the tree, to make it conform with society; all that remains of this attempt is a single rotting wooden plank, covered in lichen like the rest of the tree.

The tree room is a cathedral. The sun streams through the leaves of the high ceiling of branches; the light refracted and creating intricate shading in the otherwise shady room, like stain glass windows. The serenity of the tree made room offers refuge and safety to any weary soul.

Climbing root to root, root to branch, branch to branch, I can reach high in the tree; here it’s possible to look out across the vineyards, where, between the rows, yellow pin cushions and mustard flowers color an otherwise drab field a joyful yellow. Turning I can also see the Junior High School, its hard concrete buildings holding children away, contrasting with my tree sanctuary. In the school there are only inside voices and stale air to breathe; there are lines to stay in and rules to be followed and scheduled times to be met, there is only one right answer to a problem, no more questions asked, now move on to the next one; there are specific places to laugh, specific places to think, specific places to eat; there are walls and windows that don’t open and being outside means you have done something wrong; there are judgments, mistrust, disapproval, and hatred. From my tree, my island of mystery and youth and laughter and mischief and young love and forever, I can see where childhood ends. I hold on tighter to the tree and hope I don’t fall off.

--Itxaso