It’s simply a fascinating time of year. I could watch the birds skip across the ground all day. The flashes of green descend from the branches. The sunlight cascades through the leaves to illuminate their different shades, as well as the splashes of blue, white, black, grey, and the indescribable. Different sets of wings find their place and flutter together; it is rare to see such a diverse group at the same task. Round rock pigeons and mischievous magpies. The parakeets came after the crows today. It is a treasured scene of a feast. This time of year, I can soak in scenes like this until sunset.
Parakeets and pigeons enjoy a moment of egalitarianism.
That is, until my peace is potentially disturbed. A fietser with a speaker. Clangs and bangs down by the harbour. May your God forbid there be a festival in our calm little patch of peace. Mind you, not all disruptions leave a bad taste. Here is one now. That boy who always comes with his different bandanas and different bags. Sometimes he brings different people as well, though he spends most of his time here alone. With a book, a pen, and he’s taken to bringing his camera of late.
This time around, he and his little friend seem to have also noticed the stunning view and are taking note of the dozens of green birds that are toiling on the ground. It’s my and my neighbours’ freshly fallen fruit that brought the birds in such numbers. I like calling it fruit because it makes me feel bonita. I believe that’s what you lot call it when we do so, anyway. I think you would also call me a Beech tree.
A lone beechnut awaits its fate.
I have never come around to fully understanding your language, but I do pretty well at reading energies. Your language seems to be constantly changing. Different sounds from different people as the seasons pass. Seems rather exhausting; I think I prefer how the birds and I communicate. That boy still talks to me, though. Somehow, I do understand. I have always felt like I mostly understood, at least. He is not the first and hopefully not the last to consider my trunk a subject of safety and wonder. He’s currently solving the same puzzle as the last human that came ’round. By that I mean finding the comfiest place to settle. My roots aren’t the easiest to find a seat on, and that holly bush next door has a habit of creeping over. But at least we offer plenty of shade.
The fruit brings my aviary friends to the floor, humbling as it is. I feel it is an amusing form of necessary teasing between myself and the neighbours. My fruit grows in the sky with them. Next to them on the branches where they sing every day. Where they meet and rest. Yet, when the nuts are perfect, I toss them across the forest floor. They get so frustrated; it’s wonderful. Sure, some of the seeds would make it anyway. But honestly, I do need the birds’ help. Thanks to this process, more trees can grow, more birds can sing, and more of you can find the perfect shade. And while beautiful, I still can’t get enough of my joke. The big egos on those parakeets pecking diligently alongside pigeons. So many birds insist on sticking to their own flocks and cliques – not if it’s a lunch I called.
A parakeet observes from the branches of a neighbouring beech.
Part of what makes me so happy when I see this display is the consistency of it all. I can rely on it every time, every year. This is blessed life. One that serves purpose, beauty, and peace. I feel the energy of every living thing that comes under this canopy. As I mentioned, I like to do my best to read energy. That boy, for example. He loves with his whole heart. He’s scarred but passionate. A sensitive soul. I believe he uses this space to heal, and I am very appreciative of that.
You may understand Flevopark, like any park, to be planted by humans. While that may be the case, we operate as well as we can. At night, the park is our own. Fewer lights, less talking, and therefore a time of true communication. The wind tells us this isn’t the case for the entire world that surrounds us. It’s brought tales of forests as large as our roots could grow. But some of these forests are cold and smell of metal and stone. I think I’m happy with my holly and oak neighbours, and the fragrance of the daslook in the spring.
Wushu and his neighbours.
You may feel sorry for me. An old beech surrounded by foreign energy. On the contrary, I have learned to adapt and grow the way I’ve needed. Could I not ask the same of you? Are you not planted where you are, in a way? Did you choose the forest you grew in, whether shaded or metal? Do you make the best of what life has offered? I have felt the energy of this world change around me over time. That’s another benefit of having so many of you around; I can feel these shifts quickly. I can sense the intensity and strain of the people. I can taste it in the dirt. But it’s not my role to grow with concern.
I hope the best for each of you. I hope you find your peace in the seasons. I hope you find love in your value and recognize that every aspect of your life means something to someone or something. I hope you are not saddened by your scars or the twisting of your branches. Each mark tells a story. So long as we maintain, we are allowed to heal beautifully. May those harboured by your shade stay cool; may those protected by your energy stay strong.
