When you close your eyes and think of some creature in nature that embodies ‘strength’, what do you see?
I see a solitary oak tree, towering and ancient with countless gnarled branches, in the middle of a soft green meadow. This oak stands tall and proud, but bows respectfully to the sun whose rays filter through its dancing leaves. I in turn bow before this tree as to a wise elder, a seer of past and future; a monument to time.
If I was borne of a culture that had totems, a culture whose roots were as ancient as this timeless tree, I would like to think that my totem would be the mighty oak. Its outstretched branches pull the heavens toward earth, trapping spirits in its fortress trunk wrinkled with the memories of long-forgotten souls. Its roots, the tendril-anchors wrapped in life and death, are stabilizers ever changing and seeking. Its life-giving veins pulse with invisible strength, silent equanimity.
Ah, if only I could know what it is to be an oak tree. To shelter fluttering feathered creatures and nourish furry chattering beasts. To be singular but never lonely. To be energized by warm glowing energy and the outflow of animal breaths. Are trees the embodiment of enlightened souls? The Buddha reached his nirvana beneath the solemn watch of a sacred fig tree. But the Buddha was still only a man. Trees are something different still, regal in their mystery.
Why am I drawn to the feet of a towering oak? Perhaps because I grew up surrounded by these oaks, played amongst their roots and shadows, and used their acorns in childhood games. They are familiar, a link to my past and perhaps a beckoning of my future.
Although I can never fully know the oak, I feel kin to it. My tendency to silently observe the world from the sidelines, allows me to imagine what it would be like to be a tree. A human-tree anyway, as that is all I know. I enjoy giving to others, but I am often limited in my ability to reach out to them—they must come to me. But if they do, I will do what I can to nurture. Maybe I am more like a paper-bark tree, my fragile outer layers constantly peeling to reveal new layers underneath. But I still aspire to know the sturdy oak, as if it holds the key to my Self. Maybe it is itself the key. The oak is, after all, my symbol of strength.
What about you? What do you draw strength from?