“I had never heard of a Witness Tree, a tree that’s lived a very long time, standing silently, having witnessed a historical event. I would argue that each moment of every day is historical, and no one has to deem the day’s events worthy of remembering, so, from my perspective, all old trees are Witness Trees.

Some friends and I recently spent a few minutes under the vast canopy of a 300-year-old oak. We were enjoying each other’s company. One thing led to another, and somehow, we left without really experiencing the tree. I woke up the next morning keenly aware of that missed opportunity. I considered driving an hour back to Isle a la Cache but decided I could stay closer to home. I had already established a broad definition of Witness Tree. I didn’t care if my tree sheltered the Potawatomi or the nameless people from the Late Woodland Period, so I headed to Dayton Bluffs.

Once there, I put on my boots and studied a trail map for the most likely place to find a big old oak. Trusting instinct, I followed a trail along the edge of the forest. I started down a hill and spotted a promising tree towering over the rest. The massive, dark, gnarled branches confirmed it was an oak. I walked carefully toward it through the tall, damp grass. I touched the rough bark gently and stretched my arms around it for a sense of its circumference. My arms reached about halfway, Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man would suggest it was eleven feet around, so the tree was at least 200 years old.* I considered it a Witness Tree. I took pictures from all conceivable angles, my way of exploring something, and murmured some words of affection before I left the tree and continued down the hill, deeper into the forest.

I crossed a bridge and was confronted with a sign threatening arrest for trespassing. Arrest seemed extreme for putting my feet on the wrong side of an imaginary line. After consideration, I decided against it. The potential payoff was negligible. Only the trees would witness my rebellion; I laughed to myself. Somehow, this reminded me of my short interaction with the tree. I was aware and frustrated by my lack of focus. I sought that tree, and like the one I had the honor of seeing the night before, I didn’t pay attention to it, not really. I took pictures and figured out its approximate age, but the interaction felt shallow and meaningless. The tree grew for hundreds of years in the same place, yet I couldn’t sit with it for even a moment. That was important to me for some reason. I had to go back.

I would sit in meditation. Ticks be damned, I thought as I went back across the bridge and up the hill. I forgot how far away he was. I started referring to the tree as “he”; yang energy, reaching toward the sun, high in the sky. The roots would be yin, digging deep into the dark wet earth. Finally, I saw him, “there he is,” I cooed as if referring to a lost pet. I found a flat spot and put my back against his trunk; my crossed legs created a comfortable base. Thirty minutes, I promised, one minute for every seven years you have been here. I closed my eyes. The trunk was wide, no one could see me from behind, and I would hear someone coming before they would see me. I felt safe.

I relaxed. I heard birds and peeked curiously from behind heavy lids. I was missing a lot and realized this was a meditation about the location and the tree, so I changed my approach. I gazed at what the tree had been witnessing all these years. As I sat, the ruckus that had been me dissipated, allowing Nature to come out of hiding. Birds sat on low branches beautifully silhouetted against the cloudy sky. Bugs forgot I was there and flew around as if I was a plant. An inchworm made its way, little by little, up the front of my shirt. I sat. And I sat. I sat feeling safe and part of Nature in a way that one can’t when they are moving. I was sitting against the tree, watching a world I thought I knew open up in a way hidden from me for sixty-one years. I felt the damp earth supporting me. I saw insects, plants and birds from a perspective of integration. I listened to the sounds that emerge when a human surrenders and allows Nature to embrace her.

I found a tag at the foot of the tree. 1729 is how humans refer to him. I wonder how many others have found inspiration while sitting at your base? How many lessons have you taught with your silent presence? How many stories could you tell? But you don’t tell stories. You’re silent; that’s part of being a Witness Tree.

*Da Vinci said a person’s reach, fingertip to fingertip, is equal to their height. I am 5’6”, so if I can reach halfway around the tree, its circumference is 11 feet or 132 inches divided by 3.14 (Oh, that’s right! I forgot what pi is for, lol), gives us a diameter of 42 inches x 5 for a white oak equals 210 years. This is an estimation, of course. I’m a geek for sharing this, but I think it’s fun.