I became a tree for a week. It was an unpaid internship. I'd applied to the local Tree Bureau. They said they did have one position available but were not able to pay me at this time, was that OK?
I said yeah.
They sent over a map of a forest on the edge of town. There was a little green X in felt-tip pen, in the middle of a cluster of trees by the river. This was my spot. I learned that the woman who was usually the tree in that spot had temporarily stopped being a tree for medical reasons.
I said OK. That made sense. I wondered how serious it was, if she was only taking a week off, but I didn't mention it. Maybe she just really loved being a tree and was keen to get back to it as soon as possible.
I asked if there was a dress code. They said, no, not exactly, but I shouldn't bring any pencils or paper. No magazines or newspapers either. Trees don't like it when we use paper near them, because it's their skin.
I suppose if someone showed up at my office building and started writing with a pencil made from a human finger, on parchment made from human flesh, I'd be upset too.
They said, any more questions?
I said no, and thanked them for the opportunity.
Monday rolled around and I hiked my way over to the park for 8 o'clock sharp. I hadn't printed out a map, so as not to offend my new colleagues with the sight of paper so early on. After all, I wanted to make a good impression. But I had a picture of the map on my phone. I figured that would be OK.
Arriving at the spot, I double- and triple-checked my phone. Yup, this was the place. Right by the tepid green river. I gave a curt nod to the tree to my left, and a half-smile to the tree to my right. This cluster seemed fine. They seemed like OK people. Hopefully neither of them was a noisy eater.
It was not yet raining, but there was a slight dampness in the air. The sun wasn't fully up yet.
I crouched down and unlaced my boots, kicked them off, and removed my socks. I placed the rolled-up, dry socks inside the boots, and sealed the boots inside a medium-sized ziploc bag. This went inside my rucksack, which I zipped firmly closed. I locked my padlock around the zipper, and then stowed the rucksack under a nearby bush.
My bare feet felt cold in the damp grass. I wriggled my toes, allowing the pointed leaves to pass in between them, tickling me. It felt like stepping through a kids' paddling pool.
Certain I was in the right spot, in the cluster of trees by the river, I began the day's work. I pushed my bare feet down into the soil, softly scraping and digging. Planting myself. I kept the movement going, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, until the dirt was up past my ankles. That felt right. Though the earth was cold, my feet felt comfortably encapsulated, like the whole ground was a particularly well-fitting pair of shoes I could wear.
Satisfied that my roots were in place, I raised my arms up at my sides, spreading out my fingers as branches, and waited for a wind to come. A wind that would gently rock me from side to side, and lull me into that deep, restorative sleep that only the trees can achieve.
But, as I discovered, from a tree's perspective a week is an incredibly short period of time – less than a human minute. So I wish I'd stayed awake for more of that week, my week as a tree. I could have learned so much more.
At the end of my allotted time, I shook off the dirt and rain from my body, removed my feet from the soil, and replaced my shoes and boots. They felt unnatural on my feet. It felt like walking on the surface of an alien planet, in a strange gravitational field.
I took a deep breath of forest air, and headed for home. But for the first hour or so I couldn't remember which way I was supposed to go.