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.
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| 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.
