My gaze is directed upwards, towards winding branches with fresh leaves. There is a gentle breeze and birdsong all around me. I have taken off my cardigan, rolled it up and placed it under my neck. My head almost touches the bark of the tree trunk and I am surrounded by moss-covered roots. On a branch a few metres above me, a blackbird hops back and forth. It watches me intently, seemingly unafraid. When I move slightly, it flies away.

This is what I have been doing for the past few months. I have settled down by tree trunks and started observing. Oak trees, plane trees, plum trees, conifers. I marvelled at the falling leaves in autumn, sometimes dozens at a time after a gust of wind. At the blossoming in early spring. At the growth of leaves afterwards, light green and almost transparent. When I saw a tree again after a few days during the transitions between seasons, it could have undergone a complete transformation. And now the top of the tree under which I lie, still visible at the beginning of this month, is almost completely hidden behind thick foliage.

Something special happens when I lie down under a tree. Suddenly, what is happening above me is the only thing that matters. My breathing becomes calmer, my senses sharper. I feel in everything that I am part of a greater whole.

The day is drawing to a close. In the distance, towards the river, I can still see a glimpse of the sunset. Through the leaves, I see warm colours slowly fading from the sky, giving way to darker tones. The tree glistens in the last rays of light.

I am lying on my back in the grass. There is nowhere else I would rather be.


Rick van der Linden


This text was written as part of the the project 'In Horto', presented at Odapark, Venray and Museum van Bommel van Dam, Venlo (The Netherlands) in 2022.