Tree

On my walk today I saw a fallen tree, probably a casualty from one of this past winter's many storms. And then again, perhaps not a casualty, after all?

The root system was immense – the tree must have been fifty years old, if not more. The heaved roots, so intertwined with their ecosystem of soil and grass and understory plants, had peeled up everything in their wide circumference. That great trunk, vertical for decades, now lies horizontal on the forest floor; and that earth’s skin, once horizontal, now stands oddly perpendicular, like a capsized ship moored in the sand.

But from nearly every branch of this felled tree, new leaves emerged glossy and brilliant green and full of spring's promise, little fingers seeking light, photosynthesizing, inhaling carbon dioxide through their tiny stomata, exhaling oxygen, then sending energy down to roots - no longer buried deep to retrieve water and nutrients to send back upwards. The cycle broken.

What will happen to those young orphan leaves, I wonder? Will they grow valiantly only to wither and die?

Amputees sometimes feel missing arms or legs long after they've been removed.

We think of and remember friends and loved ones who have died or gone away.

The body has an astonishing capacity to heal itself. Bark, skin, limbs, bones, hearts, all (more often than not) knit themselves back together with nary a scar.

I have seen strong, stalwart trees growing from fallen logs, sawn trunks, twisted limbs; new shoots emerging year after year from pollarded branches; bright pink blossoms bursting forth like little posies from the leaf scars (or is it the lenticels?) of cherry trees each spring. And I have seen trees, sometimes very old ones, growing from fissures in stone, even in the most unlikely and unexpected places.

And too, I have seen trees well-tended, well cared-for, in the right soil, with the right water and all other right conditions, wither and die for no obvious reason.

And today it is Easter, with little girls in their Sunday dresses; and frothy blossoms of cherry, apple and pear, like parasols over the city; and a soft green haze of new leaves climbing its way up the mountain, higher each day as the warm air rises. The way I see it, miracles happen all the time, every day. But who are we to judge? Who are we to know? I suppose I find comfort in the open-ended questions that don’t even care to be answered (as if we thought we could), and endless possibilities besides. A friend said recently, “Ours is to make what is real magical, using all of our respective powers.” We remain surrounded by mysteries that, if we have an open mind and an open heart, keep us watchful, curious, grateful, and ever full of wonder.

For another post with images of the cherry trees and blossoms at Dia:Beacon, click here.