There have been times in my life that I
have felt a great emptiness inside. A hollow expanse that should
contain all that is me but contains only muffled echoes of forgotten
possibility. At other times that space has felt like it is overrun with
rottenness; a vile, decayed sludge that has seeped in through forgotten cracks
until I am full up with foulness. It spreads out from my core to
the ends of my fingers, the tip of my nose, the top of my head, until I become
a tower of unworthiness. Unlovable, unwanted…
Yet, somehow I am still here.
Somehow, despite carrying this giant bag of self nastiness, I grew. I
moved through life, not always functioning in the best way, but still
alive. There are so many of us that live in this way – wounded, but still
walking. Dancing along the edge of the wallow…
When I sat last night to draw I wanted to
create some image that spoke to this feeling. This feeling of being
alive, but deeply hurt. I put the pen to paper, and I asked my body, my
heart, what image will convey this? And so emerged the hollow tree.
The hollow tree is wounded, but it
lives. At some time in it’s life the heartwood was damaged.
Fungi moved in, breaking the wood down. As time passes the core breaks
down, but the rest of the tree grows – the fungi only feed on the decaying
wood. Depending upon how you approach the tree, you may not see the
gaping hole in its side. You only see the living bark, the green leaves,
the blossoms, the fruit; you may pass it by never knowing the emptiness that is
inside.
But you might also decide to walk around
the tree. To examine it, to look more closely, as you come around the
other side you see the great wound that is there. A closer look and you
also see the spots where new wood has grown in around the edges. You will see
the remains of a possum nest, or where a squirrel has stashed its acorn
bounty. If the hole is large enough you may even step inside and marvel
at the quiet of this hollow place.
I wondered how such trees could live;
with their hearts rotted out. I discovered that trees are remarkably
adaptive creatures. There are theories that the way trees rot is an
adaptive trait, that the minerals, and nutrients stored there are broken down
by fungi, returned to the soil, and used again by the tree as it grows new sap
wood. Some say that hollow trees withstand storms better, they bend
instead of break. Another theory is that trees will allow the rot to
happen because the heartwood is not what keeps the tree alive, the new sapwood
is, and so it turns its energy and resources to creating new paths for sap to
reach the rest of it.
Today I sit holding this image of myself
as the hollow tree. Still reaching my branches to the sun. Still
creating fresh new green leaves. Still blossoming and bearing the fruit
of my existence. The wound is not gone, but it is not just an empty
rotting hollow. When I step inside that space, that wound, I find that it
is also haven. Here I can sit and remember how I survived, what got
me through, and if I reach out to touch the edges, I connect to the tough,
living wood that is my survival.
