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.

A Divine Washout

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a dreamer.” “There is not. But dreams have a way of turning into nightmares.” Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

It was a hot, bright, sunny day. The birds were sitting on cables stretched along the roads. Their mouths were open as they sometimes are. I don’t know if birdies are trying to cool down when they do that or if they’re just ready to say something but can’t find the words. In any case, it was a hot, stuffy day, and no one was doing more than they had to.

On the side of my truck was evidence that a bird had recently sat upon the power line that stretches over my parking space. I looked at the streaky white and gray paste that dribbled down the door of the truck like some avian Rorschach test, and suspected I had possibly been blessed by the highly unusual visit of some lost Condor.

In any case, the unsightly blotch needed to be dealt with and it was far too hot to haul out a bucket of soapy water and hose, so I trundled on down to the local service station, fueled up the truck, and put it through their automatic car-wash service. I handed the attendant my slip with the car-wash code on it and, as he read the details through eyes drenched with perspiration, I casually joked, “You know, this means we’re going to get rain.”

A virtual gully-washer of sweat poured off his forehead as he nearly broke a smile, thanked me for my patronage, and waved me into the mouth of the noisy Rube Goldbergesque cavern which lay ahead.

I marvel at contraptions like that. As I rolled my way through the machine, pushed along a metal track by some mechanical gee jaw, I gazed in awe at the tangle of hoses, pipes, and gizmos that sprayed soap, water, and wax all over my vehicle while industrial strength brushes whipped and stripped the dirt away. I don’t know how it does what it does without inflicting grievous bodily harm to the vehicles that pass through, but it does (and it did).

I came out the other end all wet and shiny. Well, I didn’t come out that way, but I was in the truck when it came out all spic and span, and that’s what counts. Another attendant wiped down the vehicle with a soft cloth, put the side mirrors back into their rightful places, and waved me off (with a smile) to my next adventures. I returned his smile and tipped him my appreciation; I then made my way home (keeping an eagle eye on the sky for avian bombardiers), and parked once again in my customary spot.

Well, I got up this morning, opened the drapes, and noted with smug satisfaction that it did, indeed, rain overnight. The air is now clean and fresh, and the dirt that was washed out of the air now sits upon the truck in the silent acknowledgement that my prediction for rain had come true.

I chuckled sardonically to myself. I laughed quietly as I didn’t want to wake my dearly beloved, nor did I want my neighbors to think they lived beside a homicidal maniac (about which there wasn’t much they could do anyway).

But isn’t that the way of life? We do what needs to be done knowing full well that it won’t be long before the task is undone or needs doing again. One can grimace about it, I suppose, or complain bitterly, but to what purpose? The obstacles in life do not obstruct us on our journey. They ARE the journey, according to an ancient mystic.

And so we smile, thanking God for the rain that waters the earth, rather than cursing the shower for spotting up our vehicle. After all, do we curse our dishes for needing to be washed, or do we thank God for the food that graces our plates?

Approaching life with an attitude of gratitude has really helped me sleep better at night. It helps me in my relationships with friends, family, and strangers alike. I think it makes me a more pleasant ragamuffin to be around.

And it’s far cheaper than a carwash (and more fun than a Rorschach test) here in this, our valley.