My Cottonwood

By Liza Zmolek. Wright '94, Greifensee, Switzerland

I am writing in a cottonwood between the Snow and Spori buildings.  The chocolate ice has vanished, a sign for the music majors to play hackey sack on the sidewalks below.  The inviting sunny air nurtures memories as I relax in my chaise lounge limb and dream of a time when this tree was clothed in green.  

            Last semester I was making many changes in my life.  I finally decided that I could not give up music for better grades.  To my excitement, I miraculously made it in Concert Chorale.  Though 97 strangers surrounded me that first day, we had one cohesive voice.  Brother Brower's face glowed with love for each one of us as he spoke of the marvelous journey ahead.  He urged us to spend time looking around, taking in all the beauties surrounding us.   The spirit behind our music encouraged me as I left the Snow building.   In that moment, I opened my eyes, avoiding swarms of tiny flies, and discovered the biggest most climbable cottonwood I had ever seen.  I gripped its thick folds of bark and leaped, my belly scraping against soft splintery flakes as my appendages dangled freely.  I continued this awkward jumping crawl, trying to ignore the motion of people in my peripheral vision.  At last my arms found the strength to hoist me to a wide base of musty limbs.  Panting excitedly, I began to sing a song of my own as I wrote poetry in my journal.  I looked down, hoping someone might see me, but most had their eyes on the sidewalks.  This was my secret pedestal. 

            Going to this cottonwood quickly became a daily ritual.  I tried climbing neighboring trees, but ended up either stuck or uncomfortable--Their limbs didn't stretch back enough to take a nap.  After studying in this body contouring branch, the library became stifling.  Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I read my art and philosophy homework as I ate my simple lunch of bread and yogurt.  I was a philosopher separating myself from the world as I pondered the meaning of the universe.  In the mornings I read the scriptures after tailoring class and before chorale.  I experienced the beauty of the Lord's works and words.  God saw me.

            People called me a bird brain for climbing trees, especially on devotional days when I wore shorts under my long skirts so I could still climb.  When Brother Brower told us to get passion for "To be Sung of a still summer night on the water" by Delius, I sounded out my wordless part on the sturdiest high branch I could find, unknowingly giving a concert to students in the Spori building.  Many lasting friendships were formed as I shared my lunch of discoveries in the cottonwood's spacious branches.            

            One day my arrival was preceded by a boy with his guitar.  I rushed up to tell him he was in my tree and soon we were singing duets as he strummed beautiful harmonies.  Rob and I would climb as high as possible to sing, while people below looked around, wondering where the music was coming from.

            I also had the brilliant idea of asking a guy to preference by cutting a poem I wrote in 21 pieces and pinning them to the highest, hardest to reach spots on the tree.  I sent him a map of the forest and watched and waited for days, impatient to see the president's son play Tarzan in his three piece suit, but I only caught a glimpse of his face slanted upward in thoughtful stillness.  Mark said yes, but because of his fear of heights, he never did climb my tree.

            Soon it was time for the trees to let go of summer's sustenance, and the cottonwood's velvet covering grew damp with dew, turning its pale moss emerald.  My hands would freeze, forcing me to write inside, so I made garlands of autumn leaves to hang in my room, but still found myself bundling up so I could stay in this spot of inspiration. 

            One crisp day I returned to see my tree surrounded by piles of foliage.  Workers in a cherry picker were slicing off its branches.  They didn't know that the log just hurled to the ground was a limb that supported Rob and I as we battled philosophies and sang impromptu arias.

            Another log dropped, exploding into splintery chunks.  That was the branch I was still hoping to climb, but now my hope, like that limb, lay shattered on lifeless concrete.

            The motor moaned on and on.  The cherry picker continued bouncing like a spider on its web.  In each second, another branch fell and the blue suited men pointed to another.  In the "playpen" of the Snow building, I expressed my sadness to any stressed student who passed by, but their laughing eyes did not understand my loss.  Finally the cherry picker departed and a truck overflowing with branches sprinkled sawdust as it casually drove away.

            It was hard getting used to being in the tree again.  It was dotted with bright spots of bare wood and its branches no longer hid me.  Soon winter coated its dormant form with frosty layers of flocking, which I watched melt and freeze, everyday hoping for spring.

            Now that warmth has returned to my cottonwood, I see that we are all trees.  I need to lose many bad habits and foolish expectations in order to support greater things.  Losing branches is not easy, but it is because the Lord loves us that we are allowed to experience adversity's humbling cuts.  The Lord wants us to reach our full potential to become like Him.  He knows, like the workers did, that because a few branches were preemptively removed, none were later torn away by winter's destructive force.  I know the Lord can make our souls flourish like springtime if we turn to Him faithfully throughout each season of our lives.  I am grateful to Him for friends who have supported my hope through winters and pruning, never too afraid to rest in my branches.