View on the Dancing Tree in the Green Meadow

Late in the afternoon, unexpectedly the sun broke through. After a day of finishing repairs and paintwork we had to make our sunday walk around down to the Weser riverside. The world still wet from the last rains. We were happy to find ourselves under a grey but open sky and have our fresh breathing. To the West the sky was opening, so that way we went along the river. Whirling and streaming the waters flooded rapidly. A few ducks were trying to cross. As I halted to look more into the play of light and shadow through the riverside trees - with its silver leaves bending in the wind - I was drawn towards a magical scene on the opposite riverbank. There amidst the dark and silvergreen lighting trees in a golden green meadow, our “Dancing Tree” was standing stirless, leaning into its Silent Autumn Dance.

This tree often draws our attention, whether we walk at this or on the Other side of the river. But here was the sudden magical moment. Like it happened in a very different way, when we walked during Winter time on a frosty, snowy, mysty Saturday afternoon at the Other riverside. The Dancing Tree is leaning or bending slightly in a very elegant way. The rhythm of its stirless moving, or the structure of its waving branches reminds me of that Other Famous Dancing Tree.
Painted by Piet Mondrian in 1908: Evening: the Red Tree in red, blue and yellow. This painting marks Mondrian’s breaking away from post-impressionism towards a more formal, not yet abstract style.

Everytime we meet this Tree - even in a distant view like today - something unspeakable is touching your soul. I do not know and I can not tell what it is, that makes an encounter with this Tree so fascinating in a tender, gracious way. We would sit down on a wooden bench and be amazed, listening to that far away motionless Tale. Maybe we did not listen carefully enough. Otherwise we would have heard about that day The Young Tree fell in love with the farmers daughter laying and laughing under its leafs on the steep meadow. She danced with him and caressed his trunk. But year after year she grew up and left the region, leaving her Lover still longing for the next dance. You know, Tales like that told on a Autumnal Sunday Afternoon. Sitting together on a wooden bench in the last sunrays, looking over the river.