Justin's starting first grade tomorrow. He's entering a first-to-third grade combination class in which he will be one of the youngest kids. This after being the oldest in his class for the last two years. There will be less play and freedom in his class, and more intellectual demands. We think he's ready, but he's been worried all summer about going to school with the big kids. He's talked about the possibility of "mean kids," having to "write all the time," and not having enough time to play outside.
      Last week, I asked Justin if anything would help him get ready for school. He said he wanted to have a family picnic under the two big trees near our house. I knew exactly where he wanted to go.
      A ten-minute walk from our house is a wonderful wilderness area, and if you walk in a ways, there are two of the most spectacular old Live Oak trees imaginable. They are tree climbing heaven: full of broad, sturdy, safe branches. The biggest of the trees has so many large sprawling branches you could have a whole first grade class climb it, all at once. It's a massive, old tree, magical and full of ancient power.

      Tonight, I packed a picnic dinner and we set out. Joan pushed Emily in the stroller, Justin rode his bike and I walked fast, trying to keep up with him. We rode and walked into the park and headed down the dirt pathway, lined with big trees and lots of poison oak. We passed a quiet lake and headed up the dirt path to our special trees. I spread out a blanket and we quietly ate our dinner. As soon as they finished, Justin and Emily started to climb. They both looked beautiful perched in the big thick arms of the oak, Emily scurrying up the bottom, Justin, further up and out, shimmying along the meandering limbs. He had one spot he jumped from, over and over, gradually mastering the knobs and branches he had to pass to get to just the right spot. I said, "Justin, this tree is kind of like school. There are so many branches of knowledge and you never knew where they're going to take you, but if you focus your attention and follow them, they'll lead you on wonderful adventures."
      After the kids climbed for a while, Joan called them down and we gathered at the foot of the tree for our ritual. Joan asked us all to stand up tall with our feet slightly apart, facing the tree. She had us breathe and asked us to imagine our feet going deep into the earth like the tree. She said, "Whenever you are scared or uncertain or need courage, close your eyes and remember this tree and feel your roots going deep into the earth." Justin and Emily closed their eyes. I could feel them burrowing their young roots downward.
      Joan continued, "This is a tree you can talk to. You can come here and tell this tree all your secrets. See," she said, pointing to a big, old gnarly knot, this is a place you can whisper your secrets. I bet lots of kids' secrets are in this secret hole, right here."
      And," I said, adding in my two cents, "If you have a problem at school or something happens that you need to figure out or think about, you can ask one of your parents to bring you to this tree so you can sit high in its branches and think. This tree will always be here for you."
      "This tree can be a magical place for you," Joan concluded. "It can be your special spot."
      It was quiet. The children were absorbing every word, like hungry little sponges. Then we all walked up and touched the tree. It felt good and substantial. It made me remember trees I had known and loved, trees that had comforted me and given me solace, trees I had cried my heart out to. Maybe this would be Justin and Emily's tree.

      It was past six and dusk was settling. It was time to head home for teeth-brushing and jammies, stories and bed. Tomorrow was a school day, Emily's first full day in her new preschool and Justin's first day in first grade. "C'mon kids," Joan said. "It's time to go."
      Justin and Emily asked for one last climb and we said yes. As Justin climbed, I saw him sit still and erect in several forked branches. Then he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He found several special places where he laid his head down and whispered secrets into the knots of the tree. He looked down at us with reverence and explained, "I'm making my wishes about first grade." Then he lowered his voice into a whisper I couldn't hear, and poured all his hopes and fears and worries into the tree.
      Afterward, both kids climbed down and we packed up and said goodbye. In the growing twilight, as we headed down our street, I marveled at how readily children embrace the divine, at how much comfort simple earthly treasures can provide.