Wounded Love

It seems like a lifetime ago, but the calendar reminds me that less than six weeks ago I arrived in New York City on a Valentine’s afternoon. I was there with my hometown choir for a concert at Carnegie Hall. We would soon be involved in hours of practice… practice… practice as we prepared to sing as part of a larger chorus assembled from around the country. A couple of family members joined me on the trip, and after a quick bite to eat, we bundled up in our warmest clothes and headed for a walk in nearby Central Park. It was a bitterly cold but sunny Friday afternoon and the park was full of people wearing hats, gloves and scarves to insulate against the frigid wind.  There were joggers and walkers, babies cocooned in their strollers, and business women in their high heels and overcoats.  A few hardy souls sat on benches sharing drinks and snacks. Groups of tourists snapped pictures and an older gentleman leaning on a cane picked his way carefully through the crowds. The three of us walked by a few of Central Park’s iconic places: the lake where the pedal boats cruise during summer; the winter-shuttered carousel; the Sheep’s Meadow. We were enjoying the exercise and the green space, but as our faces began to go numb with cold, we turned to walk out of the park and towards the warmth of our hotel.  As we stopped to catch our breath and get our bearings I looked around, looked up, and was awestruck. Towering above the bench where we rested, high up on the trunk of a very old tree, the long-ago wound of a fallen branch was surrounded by a heart-shaped growth. Right above me was an unexpected gift- a beautiful nature-made Valentine. 

I’m sure I’m not the only person to notice this heart-shaped tree out of the millions of people who have walked this path over the decades, but on that day the three of us seemed alone in our small pocket of this huge communal space. I snapped a few quick pictures including some poses of those precious people that I love standing under that heart-tree. We quickly turned our faces into the chilling wind and walked out of the park near 63^rd Street, past Columbus Circle and back towards 57th. The rest of the long weekend unfolded in breakneck fashion and those photos languished in my phone like the 100s of others that I always intend to download, but seldom do.

All these weeks later, in the midst of the coronavirus crisis that is running wild in New York and other locations, I pull up that photo and the Valentine’s Day gift that I received that wintry afternoon.  The tree I photographed still stands there in that same location, above that same bench.  But what a different world surrounds the scene today.  The freedom of walking without a thought about social distancing is suspended.  Tourists have disappeared.  The simple pleasure of sharing a community space with others is replaced by anxiety and uncertainty.  Poets, philosophers, and faith-filled people have long used trees as metaphors—the Family Tree, the Tree of Life, the Weeping Willow, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Nature can be my teacher, and I often choose to use it in this way. This day when I am far, far from that afternoon in New York City in distance and time, I can look for a deeper meaning.  I grab whatever comfort, and wisdom I can from the symbolism of this imperfect and seasoned tree.

I look carefully at my photo.  Long, long ago, as evidenced by the rings around the small circular core, there was an injury to this tree. A branch that once lived and grew fell or was removed, leaving an open wounded place.  The injury could have been human-made as the result of a tree-trimming chore.  Perhaps a sudden storm or a lingering disease destroyed the branch.  Invading insects may have attacked a weak place. Removing the branch might have been done to preserve the tree, or to make the area underneath the damaged branch safe for park visitors. Whatever the reason, it was an injury, a hurt, a wound. The center of the long-ago wound is still easily identifiable; it is not covered or hidden.  It will always be a reminder of what once was, but is no more.  But around that wound, grew protection. As the years unfolded, strong layers of cells began to grow.  Protective bark formed around the wounded place and as the bark grew, something wonderful happened.  A lop-sided heart-shape began to form.  Year after year, the shape grew, bumpy and irregular, but unmistakably preserving the shape of a heart.  Wounded but whole, the resilient tree persevered. This did not happen during a few glorious weeks of summer growth, but through the natural process of a slow and steady building. Horticulturists call this type of formation a callus. Much like the way that our skins forms calluses in places of injury or wear, these thick places may be unsightly, but the protection they provide are essential.

My eye, however, does not focus on the wound, but on the love-shape that surrounds it.   I don’t think there could be a more fitting metaphor for our lives at this point in time. Our world is wounded.  People are suffering and scared.  Our optimism is wavering and we are scrambling for solutions.  And we know with certainty that deep wounds do not truly ever completely heal, not in the sense of disappearing.  But compassion, care and love can grow around them, indeed they are growing around our hurting places. We will forever mark this time in our personal and collective history as a season of deep wounding and great challenge, a time when the outer layers of the world-as-we-knew-it are gone and we are vulnerable and exposed.  We are all discovering new layers of meaning to the words resiliency and community and shared responsibility.  We are genuine partners in this battle; it will take all of us to defeat this silent, deadly enemy. Yet, something new is growing in the individual acts of people who are restricting their personal goals and delaying their dreams so that they and their neighbors can stay healthy. One cell at a time, this tree rallied and healed and grew stronger. One person at a time we will rally, though sadly there will be great grief that accompanies us. None of us will leave this time without injury. None of us will be unscarred.

Like the slow, slow healing of the tree, we are discovering that this process will take more time than we wish. Coincidentally, we are learning that time is our friend, for time spent apart means time when disease dies and spread halts. I return to this photo, snapped so casually on an ordinary afternoon in Central Park when I was surrounded by people doing ordinary, everyday things. The callus that surrounds the missing branch formed perhaps by design, perhaps by chance, into a heart- shaped solution. I choose to believe that Love was at work surrounding this wounded tree.  There is Love that surrounds us all.   I pray that like the tree, we can be transformed in an unexpected way.  The bark around that long-ago wound is rough and uneven—and tough, so very tough and strong.  And so is Love.  And so are we. Yes, so are we.

Right now, that old tree is still standing guard over the bench in Central Park.  And someday, there will be hundreds of people passing by it once again.  Toddlers will try to pull away from their parents’ hands, and sweethearts will slowly walk with arms entwined. Perhaps that same old gentleman will stop and rest his cane against the park bench as he pauses to soak in the sunshine. And, someday I’ll be one of the hordes of photo-snapping tourists.  I’ll stop in that same place and stand under the wide and welcoming branches.  I’ll say a simple prayer of thanks to that rugged old tree and the endurance and Love that it symbolizes. The future is uncertain, but what is certain is that things will change.  They always do.  This old tree will be in the park for a long time to come but some day, even it will fall.  Trees always do.  But Love— well that never deserts us.  Love bears all things; believes all things; hopes all things; endures all things. Love never fails. 1 Corinthians 13: 7-8

Oh  God of all who stand under the embrace of your Love, thank you for the lesson of wounded-wholeness, of endurance, of unexpected yet inexorable healing, and of simple love. May this Holy Metaphor, this Wounded Tree, continue to show us your Healing, Timeless Way, for as long as we have hearts to shape and be shaped by Love, we will endure.  And that is as long as is long as is long….