A cascade of leaves smothered my daughter’s fairy garden. “Excuse me,” she shouted over the din of the saws. “Can you please stop dropping branches on my flowers?”
Part of me applauded and another place within me cringed. Scripture should have been written, the pet peeves of the mother shall be revisited upon the daughter.
It was the occasion of our community’s bi-annual tree trimming and our little oak at our patio’s front was taking quite the beating. How ironic that the day before we had been in the mountains at a ranger station, peering across the ranges through official binoculars, on the lookout for any wisp of smoke, because early detection saves so many of these beloved trees from fire slaughter.
Of course I understand that sometimes branches need to be cut to avoid entrapping cars and electrical wires; certain trees thrive only if pruned regularly. Yet, as this trimming we witness occurs so regularly, every time a little more of our trees are cut away.
“If you could think,” I mused to the tree, “would you long to be away there, up on the mountain?“
Why, in this region, do so many inhabitants view these trees around them as nuisances – dangers even – as if they want to relegate nearly all to national forests? There, they are willing to value and protect the deciduous and coniferous residents, to marvel at each unique one.
Around their homes, though, so many people want a panorama of uniformity.
Discard the lower branches!
Cut off buds and young shoots!
Should any limb possess even the potential of disease in the future, sever it, no matter the cost to the beauty and health of the tree.
If a pine tree on a hillside leans to the left to catch the sunlight, strike it down!
Rather than marvel at how the conifer adjusts its upward growth to flourish, we choose to worry that its angle will reach an unsafe extension in a few years.
You see, sameness has become equivalent with safety.
I see an old tree, and I envision its stories. How many children have climbed into its extended arms? What picnics have been sheltered by its unstinted branches? See the unique shape of that limb? How its designer must glory in its peculiar evolution! Its beauty reaches into even the surrounding landscape it has touched and molded.
Then again, I purposefully deflect those voices that call me to cower. I don’t imagine there is any waste in wonder or any danger in pondering causes and meanings. I hope my children will be too wrapped up in the delight of climbing to let the worry of falling rule their choices; and that the very climbing will recall to their imaginations their smallness and the greatness of the Tree-maker.
I remind them incessantly of their individual beauty and encourage them to impact others.
Stand out for the truth; don’t stand with whatever is popular or pressing.
“I think perhaps,” I finally confess to my tree-friend, “that I desire to be away on a mountain-top though, free to revel in these truths with less conflict. I should think you would indeed be more peaceful there as well, little oak.”
The tree finally speaks – or rather, its designer whispers through the rustling of its leaves. “But then, wouldn’t we too be sacrificing too much for safety? On the mountain, you may never have even seen me through the woods? Here, at least, I can find joy in offering you what little shade I may. “
