It's about time I told you (Part 2)
Saying good-bye
đ đ If you missed the beginning, you can read it here
5. Getting to Know The Tree
Strangely, even though I had already envisioned the entire projectâsketched it, imagined the sculpture, planned the logisticsâI had never actually been close to The Tree.
It felt like dreaming of someone without ever meeting them.
Aline had told me that back in the 1970s, when she was a child, the village schoolteacher would organize walks for the students to visit The Tree. It was a local ritual. They would say hello to it and learn why it matteredâhow it had stood there, century after century, learn maths and biology right there with it. It wasnât just a tree, she said. It was our tree.
I wanted to approach it. To touch it. To wrap my arms around its great trunk and feel its bark against my chest. But it wasnât going to happen easily. As if it wasnât quite ready to let me in.
Because of how the village had developed, The Tree now stood between a steep terrace gardenâprivate propertyâand a reinforced train track embankment. On one side, the gardenâs path was narrow and winding, and twice I climbed up only to find no one home. I couldnât just trespass.
On the other side was the railway, and behind it a steep retaining wall. The tree was just above that wall, but it might as well have been on the moon.
The date of the felling was approaching quickly. I was running out of time.
Then, one day, the trains stopped. They were paused in preparation for the felling and other scheduled works. So, I took my chance. With my daughter beside me, I stepped onto the tracks.
When we reached the base of the wall, I tried to climb it. But the narrow edge, tangled branches, and loose earth made it dangerous. I hesitated. I didnât make it all the way up.
Still, I saw The Tree from below, regal and glowing in its final autumn. And though I couldnât reach it, I took photosâbeautiful, quiet portraits of a giant in its last days.
It remained just out of reach. But not out of heart.
6. The Felling
The felling was scheduled for Wednesday, October 23rd. I had planned to be there early. François, the forestry head, had taken the day offâhalf-joking that The Tree might curse him for being the one to fell it.
I sensed that he wasnât joking entirely.
This wasnât going to be a simple timber job. Due to its size and the complexity of its location, it would take a full teamâand a helicopter. The tree couldnât be dropped or sectioned where it stood. It needed to be lifted, whole or in parts, and carefully laid down in a nearby field. The whole operation had been long in the planning.
But that morning, there was no sound of machinery. No rotors. Only silenceâand fog. A thick, muffling fog had poured into the valley, as if Nature herself had whispered: Not today.
I ran down to the field where the tree was meant to be delivered. A cluster of workers stood by a grounded helicopter. The operation had been postponed.
It felt like a reprieve. A stay of execution. The miracle of mist!
I like to think The Tree was waiting for François. Refusing to leave without his final, trusted witness.
7. Saying Goodbye
The next morning, I woke to the unmistakable thump of rotor blades. The skies were clear. The felling had begun.
Later that morning, The Tree lay in pieces in the open field.
For the first time, I could approach it. Finally, I could touch it. Bitter-sweet encounter. I felt reverence, and sadness, in the shadow of this giant.
I ran my hand along the bark, now scattered with sawdust and dew. I got close and tried to count the ringsâ at least 220. François believed there might be more.
I whispered thank you. I closed my eyes and pressed my palm against what had once stood as the tallest point at the center of our village.
In the days before, I had asked the internet: What does one do when a tree passes? I knew no spiritual guide, no shaman.
But the advice was simple and beautiful: Speak to it. Tell it what is going to happen. Tell it that it will be okay.
So, I had. On the foggy day, the day it was spared, I had walked to its base and spokenâquietly, openly. I believe it heard me.
François and I had even talked, half-seriously, about bringing in a shaman. But we both felt that The Tree already knew. Its trunk was soft and hollow in places. Its insides were fragile. It had started letting go long before we arrived.
8. The Butterfly
I drove back to the studio in a strange calm. A life of more than two centuries had come to an end. But something else had begun.
When I stepped out of my car, something fluttered past meâdelicate and unexpected.
A butterfly.
In late October, in our mountain air, butterflies are rare. Almost unheard of.
But there it wasâhovering, alive, curious. It circled me once, then twice. Not afraid. It drifted toward the open car door, as if it wanted to come in.
I stood still and smiled. The butterfly hovered in front of me a moment longer. Then it turned and flew off.
I took it as a sign.
I thanked the spirit of The Tree and felt so much peace.
And thatâs when my work began.
Disclosure: I write my own story and, as a non-native English speaker, I edit it with ChatGPT
If you made it this far
đŞžI have been quietly recording my work in the studio with The Tree, for the past six months, and I continue to do so. I share this visual diary at https://www.patreon.com/c/Brindusa222 A limited number of patrons can go deeper, access live streamings from my studio and receive original art. You help The Tree and I bring the art into the world.
âThe online Sensory Drawing Circle is drawing to a close in 3 weeks. It has been a deeply inspiring series so far. Every Thursday morning at 10am CET we have been meeting on Zoom, we talk and draw on a prompt. Someone said that drawing taught us so much about our own life. I couldnât have said it better! We are unfortunately almost done this time but there are still 3 opportunities if you would like to try it out. Sign up at https://studiobb.carrd.co
đ I will be making a big event announcement very soon. This will be a high point of my work with The Tree and you will soon discover why.
Thank you for walking along with me.
Stay centered. đ
Brindusa