UNEARTHING HOPE

A Visit to Portland’s Wishing Tree

As the Caravan caboose joyfully lurches north along the highway through the dim California fog, the landscape begins to move. Maybe it’s our heavy eyelids that blur the view out the car window. Flat grassy fields swell into rolling hills, handsomely charred by the fires earlier in the season. A few hours later, mountains bubble out of the hills, transforming into the signature Oregon wilderness — jagged and green. 

Portland feels magically isolated, gated by its topography. Unlike its neighbor Vanport, which had been swallowed by the sea decades ago, Portland remains a living Atlantis. 

Upon arriving, this sensation is affirmed by the thickness of the city, bursting with character and a signature homogeneity. Every other restaurant serves creatively decadent fusion foods and the same few alternative-indie-rock songs seem to float around every corner from the small shops. It is dreamy and warm in spirit.   

However, aside from the more metropolitan areas, the energy of the Portland community compounds itself in an unlikely place — the mellow, peaceful residential neighborhoods. They are blips in Portland space-time. 

While peacefully empty, the neighborhoods exude the rich histories of living communities  through physical traces. Honey bears, pride flags, Black Lives Matter posters, and children’s drawings decorate homes along each street. One family has erected a public playground in their front yard, open to all tiny passersby. Many others have cultivated public gardens abundant in tomatoes and other foreign oblong vegetables. A dog lounges on a lawn, gnawing on a stick as it waits for someone. Should you ever need a cup of sugar, there are probably at least a dozen neighbors willing to help you out.

I couldn’t help but think of Berkeley, which suddenly appeared to me as Portland’s distant cousin. But unlike Berkeley — which is often too busy to be gentle — Portland was unabashedly, thickly intimate, pulling you into a tight embrace.   

On the intersection between Morris and 7th Street grows one of the city’s hidden gems: its broad, gnarled trunk strung with hundreds of pieces of paper twists into the sky. Portland’s famous Wishing Tree pushes out of the sidewalk, spreading its leafy arms to canopy the street. The wind gently rustles through the paper wishes which, with their soft fluttering, mimic the leaves. They almost sound like hundreds of whispering voices, beckoning you to lean in closer. 

Resting against the roots of the gargantuan tree lies a set of instructions for visitors bold enough to leave a wish: 

“Please find a blank tag. Write your wish (for you, a loved one, the neighborhood, etc). Tie it to a nail in the tree. Read someone else’s wish and hope it comes true. Thank you!” 

A roll of Scotch tape and a semi-mangled notepad accompany the cryptic inscription. Wishers have certainly taken their liberties.

A quick survey of the tree reveals a history of diverse visitors, as illustrated by their handwriting in various languages and the contents of their wishes — blocky, loopy, shy, or scrawled. I imagine others who have stumbled upon this unorthodox confession booth, looking over their shoulders before quickly tying a piece of themselves to the tree forever. 

Some bolder visitors have written their wishes on masks, others on leaves. Some, perhaps more careful or anxious about their sentiments, have sealed their words in plastic bags. Most are newer, but a few ancient wishes are so weathered by the sun that you can barely read them. All at once, it’s overwhelming. 

I learn more about the Wishing Tree community space over a phone call with the founder of the Wishing Tree (and Cal alumna) Nicole Helprin. Helprin was inspired by two similar wishing trees in Berkeley when starting her own community project with her children. Her hope was that it would give people a chance to gather in the neighborhood. 

“I feel a part of the community just by offering this tree,” Helprin confesses in a phone call. “It’s a conversation starter. Even neighbors will interact sometimes.” After asking her whether she had ever read the wishes on the tree, it appears that Helprin has a different reaction to the various pieces of floating paper. “Oh I try not to read them,” she said. “Sometimes, they can make you grateful, and sad.” 

After reading dozens, I can’t help but agree. While some are more innocent, a child’s messy scrawl asking for a chocolate, an “epic adventure,” or a COVID-19 vaccine for all (accompanied by an unmistakably phallic syringe drawing), others are more sober, poignant, vulnerable. Standing there, I felt entranced reading the same words again and again: I wish, I wish, I wish. All at once, the wishes together transformed into a living poem: 

“I wish that Vin and Strawberry can get along.”

“I wish my mom learns and believes she is capable, loved and deserving”

“I wish to be a dinosaur.”

“I have nothing to say”

“I wish for my grandma to get better” 

“I wish for a kitty.”

“To wife: Although you’re not here with me, I’d like to come back with you. I wish we both find the love, wealth, and peace we deserve.” 

”I wish my sister could hear the voices that love her.”

“I wish to find a trillion $”

“I wish everyone in the world had enough food.”

“I wish for a sandwich.”

“I wish I finished my album. Wish I could have made it.”

“For 5 more years. And five more. And more and more and more.”

“My wish is to live without fear and more love. As I live it, I hope it ripples out for all. Love, B” 

Admittedly, a part of me feels guilty for encroaching, for including fragments of such intimate sentiments. But perhaps sharing intimacy is necessary, and maybe that is what makes this experience of individual vulnerability so communal. 

Was this Portland’s secret, how the wishes were brought to life? This tree asked us to read others’ wishes and hope they come true. To care for one another. To wish for good unto others, for people we would likely never meet whom we only knew by their naked desires and most desperate wishes. 

They are shrouded in mystery, suggestive, leaving us pondering.  I can’t help but wonder if everyone’s wishes came true. It’s impossible to know for certain, but there is a security that comes from hoping for others. Perhaps that’s all we can do. 

Portland’s open arms are unmistakable. The city is comfortable, simultaneously unfamiliar and like we had been here in a dream. Its isolation welcomes anyone and everyone, like a door closing behind you as you return home. 

Driving back to Berkeley, Portland recedes into the earth — mountains simmer down, the lush green fades into dead-yellow, and suddenly we are in California again. Somehow, Berkeley feels less familiar to me. It buzzes, beckoning me to unearth it, too.

Words: Sasha Shahinfar

Photos: Niko Frost