Best of Chloe — The Dragon Tree

March 5, 2008, 10:30 am; posted by
Filed under Articles, Chloe, Featured  | No Comments

Originally published December 7, 2007.

The Dragon TreeIn a place called Clissold Park in North London, where dogs run without leashes and babies learn to walk, off the path and far into the cold emerald grass, there is a dragon, cursed by an English witch hundreds of years ago to be eternally rooted in the ground, to pay for transgressions long since forgotten.

The dragon is mossy green with age, and ribbons of bark twist around his huge serpent-like branches. His coils stretch far and low, curling like arabesques in stone cathedrals, and reaching out to those who happen by him. At first glance it is impossible to tell whether he is inviting people to take refuge under his canopy or clawing the sky, writing in agony with the wind.

I have only ever seen the dragon in the winter, when the leaves have all fallen and he looks ragged and lost, like nature put far too much work into one side and forgot about the other. His branches lie at the height of my shoulder, five feet from the ground, and I can wrap my arms around them as if I were holding a horse’s strong, muscular neck, and feel the strange warmth in the tree’s core, the flame of his breath that has yet to burn out. He is a climbing tree, and a limber person could clamber all the way to the top branches to view St. Paul’s and the Gherkin defining London’s horizon, or simply settle in the cleft of a low-hanging branch and write verse or read old novels.

When I first discovered the dragon, I couldn’t tell if he was writhing or beckoning, whether the warmth in his branches was from the burn of fighting muscles or the comfort he exuded. I couldn’t decide whether the holes in his trunk and the creeping moss were conquerors or companions. Perhaps, I thought, he was a content and wise old tree — or perhaps an embittered dragon biding his time, waiting to break free.

Whatever the case, I took on impulse the invitation to recline where the trunk had split at the base so that another gently sloping trunk had grown out of the ground. I accepted the proffered place to sit and muse, to lie back and tell him my thoughts on God and nature, on my fellow man and our history.

During these long afternoons, the dragon taught me things he had learned throughout his centuries in the ground. He described to me the great people who took their first steps within his circumference, the heinous crimes committed beneath his branches, and the everyday commonalities that taught him the most about humanity. He taught me that men search for God in whatever they can, be it mountains or oceans, stars or suns, or trees that reach out to touch people, to brush their shoulders and say, “Come, I have much to tell you.”

The dragon taught me that, as great as nature is, and as much as it can fill me with awe, the Creator is still greater. He taught me that I too must learn patience and discernment if I will be wise like the dragon. He taught how the world will go on after I have passed away and time has swallowed my memory, how I am so undeniably small.

There is a dragon in Clissold Park in North London. I have never hugged, never loved, never learned from a dragon before. But the dragon in Clissold Park, cursed by a good British witch, has learned much in his years in the ground, sedentary and silent but for the wind. He has learned that when one’s movement is measured in decades rather than seconds, one must calculate each choice carefully: that choosing to writhe is choosing to writhe for an eternity, and choosing to beckon is choosing to listen and teach forever. And he learned that though each small movement will make its impression on his form, only the results of centuries will be remembered.


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