There are a lot of reasons that we moved into our current house. But there are only two reasons that really matter – the tree in the front yard and the tree in the back yard. The tree out front is a white barked birch tree. It has snow-white bark that is like paper and the small leaves hang in delicate vines from thin branches and fill my yard with dappled shades of emerald. The tree out back is a black walnut tree. It is gigantic, with a thick trunk and enormous branches that stretch to all sides of my yard and are filled with large, diamond shaped leaves. In late autumn my back yard is filled with drifts of dried brown leaves – much to the chagrin of my kids. These trees fill me with more joy than I can really describe. I often sit at their bases and think of what life must have been like when they were young and looking out over a newly developing neighborhood with all the other young trees.
Our neighborhood is filled with old trees. My property borders a park with some of the oldest trees in my city. It is the third reason I chose this house. The old trees make for a neighborhood with character. The neighborhood isn’t perfectly lined with one kind of tree, planted there three years ago in order to attract new home buyers. It is filled with all kinds of different trees – deciduous and evergreen – and most of them are very big and very old planted by some of the first people to move into the valley. Some are “dirty” trees. They spill seedpods, or fruit, or this downy cotton at certain times a year. The cottonwood trees fill the air with this feathery down that floats and spins and twists in the early autumn. Many of our lawns get a pre-coating of frosty cotton that has to be mowed or raked up. I love it. The neighbors hate it.
As my wife and I have grown from the young kids in the neighborhood to the middle aged couple on the block we have seen some of the older couples move away or pass away and their houses earn new owners. Many of these owners don’t appreciate these “dirty” trees and there has been a rash of them being cut down over the past few years. These new neighbors despise the cotton, or rotten fruit, or seedpods and so during the early spring or late autumn we can hear the sound of chain saws and my skin begins to crawl. Some tree is being torn into – I think. I can hear the cracking and splitting. And then the silence as trucks haul away in an afternoon, what it took nature a century to create. Just like that. Gone.
The other day when I was stopped at a light at the other end of town I noticed this old truck and trailer in front of me. The truck was an old red Ford with a handmade trailer behind it. And the trailer was filled with the blossoms of spring – which all jutted at weird angles from the branches of chain-sawed limbs filling the trailer. The delicate pink flowers fluttered and sprinkled themselves over the road and onto the hood of my car. And I was sad. I was sad for that tree that had served some piece of land for probably longer than the man driving the truck had been alive. And now it was being discarded for convenience. It, and some old tires and some broken boards, had all become trash in a matter of moments.
I stared at the remains of that tree and I imagined in my mind what it might have looked like in its prime. The perfect tree. The symmetry and form of the tree filling someone’s yard and life with shade, beauty and fruit to enjoy on a hot summers day. It made me think of a time when I had been privileged to take classes on creating the perfect miniature trees. I, and many others, took classes on growing our own bonsai trees from a classically trained Japanese bonsai master. I had found a place just north of me where this man, Mr. Miyamoto, had a modest business supplying bonsai trees, classes and supplies to enthusiasts. And I wanted to be an enthusiast. I would drive up there once a week, pay my money and sit at the feet of Mr. Miyamoto, and listen and learn. I would take my own newly purchases trees and do my best to bend, form and train these small trees to look like something one could find on a wind-swept cliff off of the coast of Japan, Oregon or Spain. I would spend hours reading and practicing to make the perfect miniature tree.
Mr. Miyamoto’s store was filled with very, very old trees. Some over two centuries old. They bloomed and blossomed and flowered just like trees of regular size. But they did it in the confines of Miyamoto’s shop. It was incredible. I will never forget the day he brought in one of those older trees – maybe 50 or 75 years old. It’s base was thicker than a shovel handle and it’s trunk shot straight up in a rather un-bonsai way. Mr. Miyamoto said that he would show us how to fix these kinds of trees.
He then proceeded to clip, trim and shear limbs off. He sawed almost all the way through the tree and twisted it in a very alarming way, making the bark bend and peel. There were gasps from the class. And we all leaned forward to see what harm he would inflict next. He spread some goop on the wound and then began to bind the cut. He wrapped it with twine and gauze and wire. Holding it together with clamps and braces. When he was done it looked horrible. Damaged and destroyed. I looked on what he had done with shock and alarm. But it was what he said next that truly struck me. “This is going to look beautiful in ten years.” He said, looking out at the class with a smile and a slight nod, looking back at the tree. We all sat in stunned silence.
Ten years?! It was going to take ten years for that tree to replace and heal all the damage that had been done to it. Ten years! It was then that I realized with stunning clarity that my perspective was much too short. My life was being shortly lived. I was expecting results in minutes; maybe hours. I had very little concept of waiting a decade for something to become beautiful in my world. Could I have the patience to take something, do some work on it, and let it grow on its own for a decade? Could I have the faith that my work was all that could be done at the time and then just let it go? Let it blossom into whatever it could be? The one advantage that Mr. Miyamoto had was that he had this shop. He could afford to make those drastic changes, put that tree in a cherished spot, and nurture it for the next decade while watching it become something more beautiful with his help than without it.
I look out at my classes every day and I wonder for the future of my students. Many of them have been twisted, cut, bent and carved by unkind hands for most of their lives. They have been shown little love or nurturing in their lives and in class they often show me anger, ambivalence, and attitude. They see me as another potential adversary. Someone not to be trusted. No one has looked at them with hope or kindness or understanding. And so they sometimes put up their defenses in fear of being hurt. But they also show me kindness, understanding and encouragement. They want to do better. They want to change their lives. They show me that there are a couple of blossoms left on what used to be a beautiful tree. A promise of what is to come. And I wish I could stay with them. I wish I had a place where I could take them, bandage their wounds, brace them up and clamp them down to something solid and stable. I wish I had a special place where they could sit in the sun and listen to the peaceful sounds of a waterfall and just relax and grow and become that beautiful person that I see in them. I wish I could watch them grow for the next ten years; giving them the fertilizer of love and kindness and the copper wire to gently bend their behavior with firm limits and rules that they understand and respect. They could put their backs to me and I could tell them what it was like growing up and they could draw strength from my roots as they themselves grew.
But I can’t. I have them for a very short time. Some for as short as a few days; others I have for as long as a few months. A rare few stay with me all year long. I don’t even get to see them through the year in most cases. They are there and then gone again. Many without a word or a warning. Just an empty chair one day where a day before it was filled. And so I do what I can today. I live in the moment. I often think of a note an old girlfriend gave me on the eve of my leaving home to go into the world and teach something that I thought was important. I was nervous and I didn’t know how effective I was going to be. Would my beliefs reach the hearts of anyone I taught? The note read, “You can count how many seeds are in one apple. But you can’t count how many apples there are in one seed.” It struck me then as it strikes me now. My behavior has consequences that I can’t see. My kindness today may not have any noticeable effect on the world around me; my love may be met with anger and a cold shoulder. But I am planting seeds. And those seeds will grow. I just have to be patient. Some things take decades to become beautiful. If we’re lucky, we get to see it happen. Most of the time we don’t. Most of the time we have to let it go and allow that others will see the fruits of our labors. It just takes patience.
And so I return to my own neighborhood, which is quickly becoming treeless because my neighbors don’t have an appreciation for the life of a tree. They don’t see or think about the sacrifices that have gone into planting and nurturing and caring for it. They only see the inconvenience of the nasty seedpods, or rotten fruit or fluffy cotton that floats into your mouth and eyes; or the dead leaves that fill their yard in autumn. But the rest of the year that tree serves you and the ground it stands on. It shades and feeds the lawn. It cools you. It provides a place to sit for birds and children. It protects the house in winter. It does its job year after year, decade after decade, as long as it is treated well. And you only have to clean up after it once a year. Not a bad trade. Sometimes it just takes a little patience.
I guess I just want everyone to relax a little bit and enjoy what they have in their lives. I would wish for everyone to sit at the base of a tree for at least an hour before they cut it down. I would wish them to think of the things it’s seen, the kids that have played in it, the winters and springs and summers it’s seen, the people who have enjoyed its shade – think of all these things before cutting it down in frustration or for the sake of convenience. And before you judge someone, think about what their lives might have been like. What would cause someone to act the way that person is acting? Please don’t judge too quickly – cutting someone down with words and actions. Think about it first. Sit and listen to the chatter of their leaves and dream about the beauty of their springtime blossoms – even if those blossoms are messy – they are worth enjoying. It took them so long to make it this far. Just give them a chance. Your job is to have patience. You may be surprised that in ten years from now – they really are beautiful.
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