Thursday, August 31, 2017

August 31, 2017 - The Un-Tree


It is no easy matter to become an “un-tree.”  In fact, I would say that it’s a bit harder to become an un-tree than it is to become a plain old tree in the first place.  I have been watching this tree as it “un-trees” for several years now.

At first I wasn’t sure if it had decided to make the change or not.  Then spring rolled around and no green leaves appeared, and then I knew that the decision had been made.  Still, the trunk and branches were firm and hard and unyielding that spring and the spring after.  It was solid and strong.  But time marched on as it always does.

The un-tree in its un-becoming.
At first it was a bit of a color change, a sort of greyness, even though the bark of many trees is often grey.  But it was a different kind of grey, a pale and ashen grey.  There was no vitality surrounding the tree.  All living trees give off a certain unseen vitality that is palpable when walking through the woods.  But the un-trees do not give off this vitality anymore.

A few more years passed.  The small twigs were the first to break off, then the small branches, and then the larger branches.  The un-tree became a large trunk with just a few broken-off large branches at the top, sharpened at the tips like spears.  The resident eagle liked to sit at the top because it gave such a clear and unobstructed view of the surrounding territory.  How strange and foreboding his silhouette looked way up there on a cloudy day.  The un-tree was still serviceable.

But with time, even those larger branches broke off, and the trunk seemed to shrink in height.  The bark peeled off, first in small patches, and then large patches fell off.  The long work of the insects had finally become evident.  The ravages of the many winters had left their mark, like claws raking across a brittle surface.  The rains swelled the inner body of the un-tree, and the harsh sun dried it out and bleached it.  Over and over, the un-tree became more un-treed. 

Then today I noticed a breach in the substance of the un-tree.  I put my eye right up to it and looked at the woods beyond.  Somehow, looking through the hole of the un-tree was different than just moving aside and looking past the un-tree at the woods beyond it.  I tried it several times, and I am certain that the view through the un-tree was different than the view to the side of the un-tree.

Withering little fibers hang from the hole and try to tell their story about the day they grew so strong and bright and tall.  But no one is listening.  The eagle has long since flown away and found a better perch.  Even the insects have abandoned it for a better deal.

Now all that is left is the view through the un-tree, and soon that will be gone, too.  The fibers will fall off and break down, and bit by bit each piece will dissolve and blow off into the wind as if it had never been.  Its substance will nourish creatures we cannot see, and the hidden view will disappear.

Like the old trick with the glass of water and the sugar—you’ve heard of it, no?  Take a clear glass of clean water.  Slowly add sugar to it, stirring with a spoon after each addition.  Let each addition dissolve completely and look into the clean and clear water.  Eventually, it will reach a saturation point where no more sugar can be dissolved, and as you look at the slowly swirling water at the top of the glass, suddenly crystals of sugar will materialize, seemingly out of nowhere, and swirl around and around in a vortex.  Out of nothing, something.

What dissolves in one world reappears in another world.  The un-tree may appear to be at the end of its journey, but somewhere else the journey has just begun.  Sometimes it is hard to know whether you are at the dissolving end of your journey or the appearing end of it.  When all is said and done, I suspect it does not really matter which is which.  The view through the un-tree remains.