I do not know what prompted me to talk about what follows tonight. Perhaps it surfaced naturally, as a result of today’s activities. I began the day with the intention of reorganizing my art supplies and ended up reorganizing my entire artwork corner. It felt good, cleansing, like a sort of preparation for a new journey. I guess this reminded me of what might be considered rites of passage, or moments of enlightenment.

Tonight, I was going to talk about tourists and their sometimes-annoying driving tendencies, but I do not feel like commenting on others’ behaviors. They are taking the time to stop, breathe in, enjoy the moment, look around and really see what is there. Perhaps we should thank those of us who choose to be tourists for a day or a week or a month instead of getting impatient with them. After all, they bring business to our local merchants and Inn Keepers. They also come to appreciate the scenery we so often take for granted.

Many years ago, in my twenties, I stayed at a friend’s country house for two weeks, several miles outside of Montreal. I needed some time and he had allowed me to visit and even bring my two cats. He had to be in Montreal for work for several days, so I stayed there alone, out in farm country, surrounded by endless miles of fields, cows, ravens and horizon. At night, all one could see outside was the faint line between land and sky, the lights in the kitchen of the only neighbor, the stars and the moon. On my first night alone there, I sat by the large front windows to read with my cats and the neighbor’s dog who liked to visit and had become a reassuring presence. I absentmindedly looked up from my book and through the window right in front of me to glance at the moon. I returned my attention to the book, but immediately looked up again.

The moon was full. Through the thin screen in the window, four beams of light appeared to emerge from it, forming a cross. I was mesmerized, but did not understand why. I had been raised an atheist and had never truly asked myself what I believed, yet in that moment I felt the magnitude of all that had come to pass in history and all that we had created, and I felt certain there had to be at least some force, beyond and far more intricate than our bare two hands, behind it all. I stared at the moon for so long that I actually watched the horizon move away from it. It was perhaps the only true moment of pure meditation I have ever attained. It changed me. I prayed. Prayer just came to me.

Such moments are rare, but always reach deep inside as though they had the ability to unlock some hidden memory. Yes. This is exactly how it felt. It felt as though I had suddenly remembered who and what I am, where and what I come from and how so very much intertwined with the Universe every individual existence actually is. Such moments are rare, we would probably take them for granted and not even notice them otherwise, but they do come around again, when we are ready and when, like tourists, we forget our daily routine long enough to notice.

Years later, as tourists in Scotland, Roderick and I walked in the forest near his ancestors’ castle, in Blair Atholl, Pertshire. The Scottish forest is massively populated by Beech. Their silver bark and stature are quite impressive. We walked peacefully on the path and came to a point where we stopped to take in the surrounding beauty. I was irresistibly drawn by something, but did not know what it was. I also felt like I was in familiar territory or like I remembered something. Roderick sat by a beech with his back against it and began to meditate. A larger beech caught my attention and I stood with my back against it. The energy was gentle, but distinctly penetrating.

We stayed quite a while, until it was time to return to the Inn. The moment I stepped away from my beech I was overcome by the sort of heart wrenching pain and sadness children experience when forcibly separated from a parent. I shook and cried uncontrollably and was left with the mental image of an elderly patriarch with the most benevolent eyes and smile I had ever seen. It felt like I had finally returned home or had a glimpse of a world and people I had left behind centuries ago. This is the only way I can describe this experience.

It stays with me to this day. My connection with this tree, and others since, is ever present, as subtle and deep as the invisible lifeline between siblings. Though I cannot explain how this is possible, I have found that I can sense the presence of beech long before I see them. Over time, I also discovered that many of the places I had been drawn to in nature are distinctly beech habitat. I remember as a child, the irresistible need to feel the “skin” and connect with the trees as we walked down the path where my father used to take use on picnics. I remember carefully avoiding causing injury to the roots as I walked and internally thanking each tree for steadying me down a slope. When I returned to this place, years later, I was at once shocked and not surprised to find my silver friends stand there, hundreds of them. Of course.

These experiences are not uncommon; what is uncommon is how we so often store them in the backs of our minds as though they belonged to an unreal world that does not fit in our modern times or daily business. We believe this part of our life experience is not socially acceptable. Yet how can something that so deeply touches the soul not be part of the whole person?

Slainte!