ABSTRACT
The choppy waves of Lake Washington slosh around our kayak as my husband excitedly points toward shore and says, “See that tree there? That’s where my men’s group meets.” For the past ten years, I’ve been wondering where my husband and seven of his closest friends meet every Friday morning to talk about their lives and challenges just as the sun is rising. So I’m curious about this sacred spot in the woods, but I see nothing special-only a rocky beach lined with hundreds of potential trees. I probe for details. “The tall one with the branching trunk,” he replies. I smile, knowing that he is seeing a cozy cleared area around the base of a single, special tree that I still can’t identify from the score of others in the general direction he is pointing. I realize that he is feeling a particular log against his back and the chill of morning air. He’s smelling the earthy dampness of rocky ground that slopes gently toward the water. He’s squinting with the first sun’s rays streaming through needled branches and hearing the cadence and tones of the voices of men he’s shared this place with for the past decade, come rain or shine. It is not always “comfortable.” This is Seattle, after all. When it rains, they huddle under tarps and umbrellas. But the years of meeting there have added an aura of communal familiarity to these shared feelings. For him, it is now a powerfully poignant place, clearly distinct from the forest surrounding it. Yet I still can’t tell which tree he’s pointing at.
