Cottonwood Contemplations

 

       

I had the luxury of taking a little trip through parts of Wyoming, Nebraska, and the Dakotas. While the purpose of the trip was pleasure, it was not about scenery, sunsets and lazy rivers but people. As I have aged, I have slowly learned the importance of good friendships and come to value the time I have with people more and more but I did reserve one day for me in and near the town of Pierre, South Dakota. A town that in time I have come to cherish: the river walk, exploring La Framboise Island, and looking for a good steak.

As I walked along the Missouri river, being ever observant of my surroundings, I noticed the massive old cottonwood trees that lined the riverbank. Good thing I had my glasses on. The prairie landscape includes trees of all sorts. But at one time, if there even was a tree, it would have been most likely a cottonwood. A tree long familiar with the variability of midwestern weather that overtime develops a strength that comes from deep within, a quiet courage that smiles in the moment, doesn’t brag but loves to trash talk (I think mainly about recycling) and knows deep down inside its bones a joy that provides meaning beyond words and therefore does not look to explain itself.

            But in the archetypal midwestern sign that there is water and therefore life, I also saw into a past long displaced. A past of wide open prairies punctuated by nomadic housing units, wildflowers, bison, warrior braves, old west sheriffs who didn’t need a gun, and cultural traditions far more interesting than fireworks and parades. In those thoughts I will freely admit I was overcome. Thankful, to be sharing a moment and a place that was about so much more than me. The cool evening breeze coming off the river, vintage bridge framed sunset and cottonwood trees inviting me to partake in the meeting of moments.

            There is a story I grew up hearing about the first people. To preserve supplies for the survival of the tribe if a member knew that he or she would probably not make it through the winter, this person would take a blanket and a day’s supplies and head out into the prairie. An unceasing catalog of grass, water and horizons and for one to stand with towering clouds to the back, wind on the face, and final steps in front was the moment I felt stirring underneath those cottonwoods.

            I wanted for a moment to hear those thoughts,     feel those steps,     smell those breaths,     see those visions,     taste those last heartbeats—be in that place.

Not to find death but to try for a moment to accept this gift called life. To try and see life while I am living it. For the journey out onto the prairie is not about the simple math of survival but is an important reminder that life is more than a transaction.