Climbing Tree In The Glen - 1990

In my days as a naturalist in Eco-Camp at Glen Helen*, I alternated between Discovery groups (age 5-6) and Arts Camp groups (young teens interested in a combination of nature and arts). I loved both ages. I only had one really difficult group, and it was difficult simply because the young teens were so overloaded with sophistication that they were bored with the simple good things of life. Perhaps "bored" is the wrong word to use here. Actually, they seemed to have some sort of barrier against receiving the feeling-experience of Nature.
During most of their week of camp we did the usual things, which had always been rich and fascinating for my other groups: we hiked the Glen, found the bee tree, drank from the iron-golden waters of the yellow spring; we found snakes, walked the creek, and of course, made plenty of art. But there was no spark! The kids got most of their excitement from putting each other down and shifting little clique energies. The one thing that seemed to light them up just a little was our quick-time hike back for lunch on Wednesday: we passed the Climbing Tree. The Climbing Tree is a large old osage orange, long dead - and it's the only tree in the Glen that the campers are allowed to climb. That particular day we had no time to stop and climb, so I promised my young folks that we would hike to the Climbing Tree on Thursday night, which was always our no-flashlight hike night.
Thursday dawned, and my teens were again moody and clique-y and generally unpleasant in some elitist way I still could not break through. We were discussing our skit for Friday's end-of-camp performance. The skit the group was brainstorming was just plain unpleasant. I worked to open the kids to other ways of seeing, but had no real luck with that.
Finally evening came. All the groups of campers and their naturalists were gathering and heading out on the trails. The naturalists all had their stash of Wint-O-Green Lifesavers, the kind that, when you crunch down on them in the dark, produce flashes and sparks - our little bit of night magic. My group was eager - for once! - to get on down the trail. We got to the Climbing Tree, they began to climb into its limbs, and soon all six teens were up in the top of the Tree. Then - an act of God! I don't know how else to describe what happened. As soon as all the kids were up in the Tree, a whirlwind came and shook the Tree! Nothing else around was touched by that Wind. Not even I, standing at the base of the Tree, was touched. The Wind shook the Tree furiously, and scared those young people so that they all screamed for help!
I said, simply, "BREATHE." My presence, my voice, everything about me, was directing those kids to find their calm center, stop screaming, and breathe.
As soon as they did, the Wind stopped. Everything was perfectly calm. The campers came down out of the Tree and were in a hurry to get back to the dining hall and cocoa. We had to hike until it was pitch dark, first, of course, so they could bite their magic Lifesavers. I have to say, that little human magic was nothing compared to the holy terror they had just experienced in the Tree.
On Friday we hiked out to a good place to practice the end-of-camp skit. The kids had a lot of ideas, but mostly, they were developing something secret. I'm a theater person - I love directing improv and on-your-feet playwrighting - but this time the campers wanted to work without me. It felt all right for me to wait quietly at a distance down the trail. Their secret felt like a good one, not exclusivity.
Time came for the final cookout, whole-camp picnic, and all the skits. When my group got up, they amazed me with what they did - not because of how talented they were, or because of the quality of their work, but because, in the space of the last twenty-four hours they had made a sea-change as a group. They had been truly and deeply soul-shaken at the Climbing Tree. Their skit? They acted out what had happened to them in the Tree the previous evening. When they got to the part where I told them to breathe, the one who was playing me said, "BREATHE!" Something came through her voice and her presence. Something good, something right, something powerful - and the whole audience was still. We all felt it.
I think of that group of kids every now and then. Who could ever forget such a dramatic visitation? Whenever I feel discouraged about all the separativism and elitism and this-and-that-ism of divided, warmongering humanity, I think about that moment: the youngsters in the tree, the power of the wind, the strength of the breath - and I get very still inside, knowing that Love itself WILL intervene when the time is right. And then I just breathe.