For the Oaks

For every mighty oak, there was once

an acorn that held its ground.

 

In September, every garment in my closet has acorns in its pockets, seasonal offerings from the magnificent oaks of the eastern Ontario Highlands, from red oaks and white oaks and burr oaks. There are other species of oak in the province of course, but these are the oaks of my native place, and I think of them as my sisters.

On sunny autumn days, I find a comfortable seat among my kin, and we have long conversations, some of the most thoughtful and enlightening discussions ever. I have no leaves, and I don't bear acorns, but the great oaks welcome me nevertheless.

Pockets without acorns rattling around in their depths enfold other offerings, pine cones, walnuts, beech nuts, hickory nuts and conkers (horse chestnuts). I adore their shapes, their colors, their textures, their fragrance, the whole season of their fruiting, and I can never resist gathering them out in the woods.

Autumn is a season of entelechy, a time of becoming, a time of of once and future trees. How magical, that the little wonders I am carrying home will be towering trees in the woods long after my spirit has boogied off, and my mortal husk has been composted in some fashion or other. Vast amounts of information and creative will are stored within acorns' tiny, elegant shapes. Form, function, beauty, they have it all. 

Turning my pockets out this weekend before chucking everything into the washing machine, I realized that there has been a whole forest riding around with me for several days, and it made me smile. No need to pine for my tree sisters when I am away from the woods - they are right here with me.