This is the preface piece to a planned series on this site. Feel free to return in the coming days for new reads and photos 🙂
I’ve always loved telling stories. For the longest I truly debated with myself whether my words were worth putting down for other people. I agree that there is always beauty, power, and relevance in forming your own words on paper. It is important to write for yourself. But at the end of the day, there is a ‘profession’ of writing. For years I worked as a journalist and pretended to understand what it is to be a writer.
The simple revelation that I have wandered upon today is the power of where stories originate. The essence of the story does not come from the storyteller, but from the subject. The storyteller may know how to hold attention or to align details to compel. But without the subject itself, the words cannot live. Even fictional, our inspiration comes from somewhere. This might seem overly simple, especially to some. I can’t say I found my way to these thoughts by feathering through the works of psychological or literary greats. No academic journals or trying to fight for some profound stance.
No, I was just writing about trees. Better yet, I was trying to write about trees. As I have said, I am someone who might disregard my self-worth at times. Many, including myself, would label me as a self-deprecating individual. At a minimum, I am attempting to recover from such behaviours. So, why the hell would anyone give a damn about what I have to say about a tree? Why bother writing this? Because maybe no one else will. Because no one is going to tell a story about that tree the way I will. Our voice is a gift, and the second part of that gift is that each voice is unique. You could sit 10 writers in a room and ask them to write the same story. There might be some similarities, but at least one or two might make you ask, ‘How did they see the story from that angle?’ You could point to sheer talent, but many of these brilliant strokes come from the unique perspective of that person. Their life and mind saw the story that way.
Using this type of assurance in myself made me want to know more about the Tree I was writing about. It granted me earnest curiosity. I want to write about what a tree means to a place, to the Earth. The roots that hold it. The individuals that have been harboured in its shade. Every tree brings forth life, beauty, and power.
How do we not take more time to love them as individuals?
I want to catalogue part of a life greater and more profound than mine. A soul that will inspire many more individuals long after I’m gone. My interest does not lie in generating a masterwork; I simply want to help tell the stories of those that reside in my heart.
In the years I worked as a journalist, what kept my creative heart pumping were the moments I had with people who read my stories. Maybe it was a few times a year, monthly if you’re on a hot streak. These instances of sunshine were exhibited by the simple remarks and the love of someone who enjoyed the story. I have written commentaries, hard news articles, and profiles on some of the most inspirational people I have met. When I would receive a call, an email, a hug, or a handshake from someone telling me that the silly words I was anxious to publish made them smile that day – that was all I needed. There have been a handful of times those articles even changed the course of someone’s life.
The reason these moments were so profound was not that they were just praise for my work; it came from why they were so happy about my work. Their joy so often came because I took the time to tell a story that someone might not have. Their friend, family member, or community member has loved them and cared for them every day, yet no one else had taken the time to notice. I was lucky enough that this job allowed me to cover my community, the Eastern Band of Cherokees. Through this work, I learned that every single person in my Tribe has a story. The most beautiful interviews often came as a total surprise. My work meant connecting people and sharing voices that hadn’t yet found their volume. It was all about the people. The individuals who deserved to have their stories told.
When I would have these conversations with people, they would remind me why I was ever even interested in writing. It was as if I was being reset as a writer. Like every angry and sad thing I had thought about myself and my craft was eased for a moment. If you yourself aren’t moved by the idea of moving someone with your words, I’m not sure you should still be writing. I’m not saying everyone should lower their opinions of themselves like I have, but good lord, you should understand how beautiful and special it is.
As a journalist, I was simply relaying the world around me. I believe that’s what drew me away from journalism at a certain point. There is a lack of mysticism and whimsy in your world when you have to maintain structure, clarity, and order. When your role in the community is one of accountability. That’s not to say I didn’t try to bring whimsy and joy into my profiles, features, and whenever I saw fit. I even had roadwork articles with puns in the title. But that wasn’t my purpose.
I would like to write about subjects that bring me joy and that have offered moments of respite in this city. This is an immaculate and unnecessary preface to say that I’m gonna write about some muthafuckin’ trees. I’m gonna pontificate about the sexy, profound, bitchin’ ass timber of Amsterdam. Trees that are significant to me. Are they historically significant? Maybe, but not necessarily. I live in a cool place; a lot has happened here. But I want to talk about the trees that have given me life. Trees that have taken part in my three-year journey in Amsterdam in a way that has enacted wonderment and intrigue.
We’ll start the series with the first tree that I began calling by a specific name – Wushu. I do not have a set plan for each piece. I am considering fiction, poems, essays, interviews, stream of consciousness (pray not), or however the words find me. I shall pair these musings with the best photos I can take. There is no limit to the number of subjects at this point, but the cast is looking good already.
Hopefully, through this process I can introduce you to who I feel are the most important characters of the Dutch Capital. Just as the people of Cherokee provided me with the energy to write, I would like to find that energy within Amsterdam. This city is filled with incredible people, but I need to spend more time with its most peaceful residents. The ones who have been here the longest and would share the best stories.
