The Old Woman Who Communes With Trees by Bev Hamel
A stony path leads me to the fork where the River Thames meets the River Cherwell.
The trees come alive, spread their foliage and shadow the early afternoon sun. I stop by the bend and sit down beneath a young willow tree as clouds begin to roll in.
At first, the willow’s trunk is hard against my back. Branch limbs sway around me, form a canopy over my body while ridges and furrows grow softer, gentler. Droplets of rain splash in the river, yet I am dry and protected. I take out pen and notebook, stare briefly at blank pages, then begin to write about how I came to meet Zoe - the old woman who communed with trees.
I never imagined that one day I would be in England, let alone Oxford to study. But here I was, a fifty year old woman, attending summer school at St Peter’s College in the city of “dreaming spires.”
After settling in, I went for a long walk to explore my surroundings and came upon Christ Church where many scenes from Harry Potter movies were filmed as well as the home of my favorite childhood storybook character, Alice in Wonderland.
I was not disappointed because England is a place where ghost shadows brush your elbows, crawl between legs, caress cheeks, breathe on the backs of bare necks, and whisper in your ears.
On that first evening, I met the Cheshire cat. He sat in a tree just beyond the path leading into the cathedral. He was observing the Queen of Hearts swing her Dodo bird to win game after game of croquet. It seemed perfectly natural for me to be in the midst of Alice’s wonderland, watching as my childhood dreams came alive.
I stopped beneath the tree to empty a piece of gravel from my shoe, and heard him rustle in the branches above. A limb smacked me on the head.
“Psst.”
My eyes shot upward where the Cheshire cat sat on his quivering perch grinning down at me.
“Psst to you too, but shouldn’t that be a Purr?”
He canted in a thick British accent, yawned wide with the same silly grin, “Welcome to Alice’s world, of queens and kings, and make believe, where dreams really do come true.”
“Hogwash!” I laughed. “You’re not real. You’re only make believe.
“No, that’s Hogwarts, to you.” A round ball of glass landed at my feet and as I bent to pick it up, a Harry Potter look alike twirled his cape then disappeared on a jet propelled broom. I picked up the prism. Looking through the glass, I could see that it was no ordinary transparent ball, but a well-worn crystal.
As I stuck it in my pocket, another form, a bespeckled academic looking man carried a load of books. He was dressed in a funny suit and vest, stopped a moment and gave me a wink. Could he be Lewis Carroll, I think?
Everywhere I traveled in England was like this — magical and mystical, awakening childhood dreams. For the next two months, Christ Church and its meadows became my escape from the real world, my oasis in a strange yet familiar land. On many days before or after class, rain or shine, I would walk through the tourist-filled entrance, then across the backfield and meadows to the river’s path to watch the punting boats. .
I sometimes packed a meal and stopped along the banks to eat and read from my never ending reading list of required books for my studies. White swans and various types of water birds joined me just to beg for bits and pieces of my bread. My MP3 player was invariably playing Gregorian music by Hildegard Von Bingen, a 12th Century Abyss, musician, singer, and writer. I loved to watch as the swans swam in a mystical cadence to her haunting medieval songs.
Over the weeks, I began to notice the same woman sitting on a lone park bench just before the bend that led to the Thames. She was there even on days that were gray and drizzling. On those days, she sat beneath a huge black umbrella, but always, she wore the same tattered green woolen sweater and tan cloche hat. Wisps of gray-white hair framed her forehead. Her glove covered hands showed fingertips through the ends, and she held a large wooden box on her ample lap. On clear days, a giant canvas spread in front of her, its edges touching the ground by her feet.
I wondered who she is and why she sits there every day. As the weeks pass by, my curiosity grows stronger, yet I never stop, just smile back when she begins to recognize me.
This particular day is brilliant, with puffs and fluffs of white clouds gently floating across an azure colored sky, a rarity in England. A soft breeze whispers through the trees and catches the graceful branches of the ancient willow behind her. The tree appears to frame her, no — the willow is stationed in this manor to protect her. I watch as the tree’s shape fades to that of a gallant Knight. Strange, but the other trees come alive and form more shapes of Knights in shining armor.
The woman’s head is bent downward, and I notice now that the canvas holds a distinct shape of the giant willow. I watch, mesmerized as her charcoal pencil brushes tiny strokes to form the bark covered tree trunk. Furrows, ridges, and soft cracks breathe the tree alive on the canvas.
She looks up at me, her face showing the same ridges, furrows, and cracks as the canvas tree. Her mouth forms a wide grin like Alice’s Cheshire cat. She pats the bench beside her and says, “Come, sit down by me.”
Like the Mad Hatter, I glance at my watch. No, I am not late and I do not hesitate to sit down. We immediately engage in conversation.
She speaks in a thick accent that reminds me of my childhood great aunt from Russia, Tante Anna. The woman’s name is Zoe and she is an artist and writer. I learn that she comes to Christ Church and sits here, on this same bench five days a week and has been doing this for more than forty years. She tells me this is her job and the trees are what bring her here. They are her family now and each one has told her their story. The willow is the last, because it is also the oldest tree. I sense for some unknown reason, she is taking her time.
Zoe brings out books and papers from her box. She opens a sketchbook, points to each tree, recites their name, and weaves their life, retelling story as if the tale were true. But, I believe her and am captured by the surrealness of this moment.
Next, she shows me an illustrated children’s book. The cover’s drawing reminds me of my daughter’s favorite Strega Nona books, as does Zoe herself. She may be an old woman wizened beyond years, yet in many ways, one perceives an eternal grace of youth and beauty in her.
We talk for a while and her voice draws me in, comforts and soothes me. I tell her of how I came to Oxford to study medieval woman writers and the Arthurian tradition. I also tell Zoe of my dream that one day I too would be a writer.
Zoe sorts through papers in her box, comes up with a bright red booklet, “Here, for you, take please.”
The first page unfolds like the canvas on her lap and strikes a cord deep within me; “On the silk threads of dreams, my feet stepped soft and tender, the path. Could one interpret life differently? Is living other than a dream?”
“Could you sign this for me?” I ask.
Zoe explains that she never signs her work. In ancient times, the Japanese felt that the receiver of a gift should focus on the work itself. A signature would ruin the receiver’s communion with art. “I am just an old woman who communes with trees. But like you, as long as we believe, we can keep our dreams alive.”
I get up to leave and thank her for the gift, then take my time along the path by the banks of the River Thames. The sky turns gray and a fine mist begins to fall. The young branch-laden willow that has become my tree spreads to form its canopy. I sit down, nestle against the tree’s trunk, then dig deep into my backpack and pull out a pen and notebook and begin to write about how I came to meet Zoe, the old woman who communes with trees.
