Thursday, August 22, 2019

Branching Out

“It’s interesting how something that comes so easily to one person can be so impossible for someone else.” Susane Colasanti, So Much Closer

My wife and I were out for a walk the other day. As we returned home I looked up into the maple tree that dominates our front yard and noticed some leaves beginning to change. It shouldn’t have surprised me, because I had noticed a few dried leaves blowing about the driveway like a flock of drunken, whirling dervishes. I checked my phone and confirmed what I had suspected; we were still in the first half of August, so it seemed strange that the leaves should be starting to fall.

Trees are intriguing. I love the shade they provide on a hot summer’s day. I love how they look so dead in winter, yet each spring they return to life. New branches shoot forth while dead stuff falls to the ground with each passing breeze and storm. Leaves unfurl, as if by magic, and one can almost hear them inhale the old, stale carbon dioxide we’ve let go, while returning oxygen to the lunged species of the world around them.

I don’t know if trees experience happiness or joy; I know scientists say they “compete” for resources, like light, water, and the nutrients of the soil, but I’m not sure competition is the best word to describe what they do. Humans compete. Wolves compete. Birds compete. We so-called higher life-forms compete for food and mates, but it isn’t that way with trees and flowers.

We may describe what they do as competition, but in reality there is no ego involved. A plant needs water, so it sends forth roots. It seeks, and it finds. It does not desire the death or dehydration of its neighbor. In times of plenty it thrives, and in times of deprivation it stands still and waits. It does not twiddle its stems in boredom, but stands ready to change as needed with the seasons.

Although I can be a bit of a blockhead, I’m not a very good tree. I can measure two board feet at the lumber yard, which is strange as I can’t hold a tape measure with my two bored feet. I used to pine for oak, but now I pre-fir walnut.

In any case, I found myself befuddled by the sight of leaves turning brown so soon. It seems too early for leaves to be turning colors and dropping from the tree, and yet I believe a tree knows by nature what we try to figure out by the calendars we hang on the wall.

The maple doesn’t turn red in embarrassment that she’s losing her cover. It is in her DNA to do what she does when she does it. She responds to the arc of the sun and the lengthening or shortening of days to decide when to send forth shoots and when to let go.

I sometimes wish I could be more like the tree in that regard. I prefer to hang on to things. I think I got that from my father, who recently passed away.

He was not a hoarder, but he was a child of the Great Depression, so he never replaced what could be fixed. And when things were beyond repair, he would scavenge the parts for future use. Jars and cans of leftover screws, nuts, springs, and washers fill the garage and shop. It wasn’t an obsession; it’s simply what he did out of habit.

I’ve learned to let go of things over the years. Ministerial transfers made those sacrifices essential and, truth be told, they really weren’t sacrifices. In lightening the load, we saved ourselves (and those moving us) a fair amount of money.

Harder to give up are life’s grievances. Each of us has them and, as long as we hang onto them, they weigh us down, slow us up, and cost us far more to carry than we generally realize. If we are wise, we learn to leave our burdens behind as we move forward – to drop them like leaves.

To our great delight, when we let them go, they don’t just litter the forest floor, they return nutrients to the soil from which we will feed as we reach each ensuing season. Happily, that enables us to branch out more fruitfully in this, our valley.

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