Trees with Stories to Tell

My first zine!

I've been fascinated by trees ever since I climbed the ones in my neighborhood as a kid. They were hideouts and observation posts, not to mention rare high vantage points for my vertically challenged self. Now, my passion has changed to photographing them and wondering about their stories. When I’m in the woods I read the tales trees have to tell in the lines and divots of their bark and can almost hear their whispers to each other in the wind. The decades or centuries of life that has flown overhead, landed on their branches, made homes in their trunks, and scrabbled for food among their roots.

A few years ago, I began to think of this treasured store of photographs as my collection of trees with stories to tell. I now realize that my pictures and stories are my version of acorns for the winter of my life. This year I began curating my acres-deep and wide swath of reading, and the knowledge and experiences I’ve amassed and creating some of it in different forms of exhibits for others. My recent creations in art and writing are signposts for my personal portals, paths, and patterns.

I first read about zines or mini handmade magazines, a year or so ago. I was intrigued by the counter-culture activist nature of their history. Some zines are still used for that purpose today. Zines can be as heavy or fun as the creator wants. They might be about art, roller skates, or your collection of iguana-shaped salt and pepper shakers.

The sheer democracy of zines also held great appeal, All anyone needs is a passion and access to a device to write on and a printer. Stacks of them can be left in surprising places like at a laundromat, in a bookstore, or under a rock on a street corner. You never know who might come across a copy and be sparked to create something of their own. The possibilities for self-expression are endless and exciting. It’s only a few pieces of paper and some thread or a staple.

Cover pic of birch trees

Character is etched into every nook and protrusion of this venerable apple tree’s wrap. Aged as she is, she still bears fruit each year. She holds court by an old farmhouse with a view of the sea.

An éminence grise, her wizened features are a testament to all she’s witnessed. She’s basked in the sun, had her thirst quenched by rain, and allowed snow to rest on her branches. Her lovely trunk of many textures has weathered the wild winds and stings of countless Nor’easters.

This wise crone watches over a hundred-year-old camp. She’s been part of children's play and people falling in and out of love. She’s overseen the unsteady steps of the young and last visits of people, flora, and fauna. This apple tree has long been a touchstone and benevolent spirit to countless magnificent starry skies and sunrises, to all that has this way passed.

This remarkable tree intrigues me. The unusual shape looks as if it were formed from a hundred year wind. The texture reminds me of a pale gray sandstone. Then there's the graceful, dancer-like curve to her left and those fascinating oval openings of myriad shapes and sizes. The long, narrow opening invites you to slide your hand in. Maybe that handhold opens a secret door. Her whole, amazing trunk seems like something from a fairy tale or that might be found on a yet-to-be-discovered planet.

This tree is so unusual and unequivocally itself. I've never seen anything like it. It reminds me of statues depicting Durga, the Hindu mother goddess, with several arms to protect everyone. If I were younger, I'd have climbed this intriguing arboreal specimen. I still may.

The words monkey puzzle tree fit what I'm seeing, that's not her name. This magnificent tree resides in a place of honor on an island paradise for artists and birdwatchers. She can hear the ferries dock and people admiring the homes and galleries perched on rocky ledges.

Where did it come from, this lone tree of this kind? Did a seed hitch a ride on a fishing boat? Did someone carefully bring a seedling over and plant it there, or was the seed in a bird dropping? What did the artists think as they saw this gorgeous, surprising tree take shape?

She’s a fat and sassy tree bursting with personality. Her coat is a fascinating web of intricate markings and textures. The patterns of both horizontal rings and vertical lines fascinate me. I see small circle-shaped indentations with wavy lines slipping down from them. The effect is almost like an intricate tree tattoo. It's hypnotic. I want to paint a canvas of her markings in these subtle gray hues with hints of pale yellow greens.

Here’s a tree with some battle scars. The intricate texture of the bark pulls me in close as if I could read her stories with my fingers. The markings may be ancient symbols whose meanings have been lost. There are tales behind each of those hard-earned striations and cuts. She stands tall and strong despite the many battles she's been through. My gaze is drawn to the interplay of grays and browns, light areas and dark on her hard rind and that jaunty curve of the hip on her left flank.

I love the arched opening at the bottom. It may be a little cave or hideaway for small animals. A shelter from the rain, or a nook from which to peer out into the world. That wonderful arch-shaped portal could also harbor magical creatures. They may be waiting for me to leave. If I’m quiet and still, maybe they’ll begin to call to each other, emerge, and go about their business again.

The back page of the zine:

Trees are the type of host that Rumi wrote about in his revered poem The Guest House. Some welcome large bracket fungi, others, tiny ones staggered in vertical rows. I have a penchant for trees that look like they are wearing green, mossy socks on their exposed roots.

Trees brim with all kinds of life. Woodpeckers drill for bugs, and other birds and squirrels nest in the safety of their branches. Chipmunks make homes among their roots and, underground, fungi carry messages from one family member to another. Weather does as it pleases to these stalwart beacons, and time leaves its marks. Host trees accept everyone and everything. You can rely on trees that way. They are there if we need shade or a refuge from rain. Weary travelers can rest against their trunks, kids climb them for the thrill and a better view. Their fruits and nuts are eaten, and their flowers and leaves are pressed or made into dyes or inks. They provide sustenance and shelter for so many in timeless, interwoven, symbiotic ways.

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Chaney, my podcast cohost who is 33 now, said they loved to make zines when they were 12 or 13. Zines weren’t part of my childhood, but it isn't too late. I have ideas for ones with other photographs from my stash that I have a yen to write about. There is also a spark of a book idea when I’ve conjured up five or six zines. That's exciting, and I especially like the idea of breaking that big project into small, fun ones. I can’t wait to experiment with more zines, to stretch and play with this new medium.

Some zine-related seed pods for you:

Zine history

Digital Zine collections can be found here and here.

Broken Pencil reviews zines and lists zine festivals and fairs

To create your own zines, check out how on The Modern Met and The Creative Independent.

There are many different formats and ways of binding them. I printed a few hard copies of mine, made three holes in the center fold with an awl, and bound them with colorful embroidery floss.

If you have a passion for zines or make your first one after reading this, I'd love to hear about them in the comments.