Greet Dark Days Like a Tree

I feel the call to rest. Late sum­mer has been a long, dry time in cen­tral Kentucky. Funny how the first large storm hap­pened on the first day of fall, like the weath­er knew they need­ed to bring a lit­tle bal­ance to tru­ly her­ald a chang­ing of the season. 

The trees are hear­ing the call as well. They had stead­fast­ly held onto their leaves dur­ing the drought, get­ting a lit­tle dri­er and brown­er with every pass­ing day. However, since the rains have final­ly come, so have the dark hours. The trees have made some sort of cost-ben­e­fit analy­sis regard­ing the ener­gy to keep their leaves ver­sus what they were pro­duc­ing. Or maybe they know that drop­ping leaves pro­tects their roots from win­ter expo­sure and ero­sion while also nour­ish­ing the crea­tures of the soil for a fer­tile spring grow­ing sea­son. Or maybe they know noth­ing is lost or wasted—just shared to come back around again.

Human books and stud­ies don’t know a frac­tion of the secrets of trees. One of the most inter­est­ing “dis­cov­er­ies” Western sci­ence knows now is that trees share resources as an act of col­lec­tive and mutu­al care and sur­vival. However, I deeply believe that when we stop and pause for a moment, our bod­ies already know this per­fect­ly, because our poet­ry some­times knows that “we can’t see the for­est for the trees.”

A for­est is not just made up of a sin­gle species or genet­ic line of trees—even man­aged forests plant­ed for the sole pur­pose of pro­duc­ing prod­ucts. Because even in that mono­cul­ture, a for­est is still a tun­nel­ing ant colony, ham­mer­ing wood­peck­ers, fugi­tive chip­munks, brawly bears, tiny ephemer­al flow­ers, resilient moss, and micro­scop­ic microbes! They know-know that they are a part of some­thing bigger—like the for­est know-knows that she is a part of some­thing bigger—like the Earth know-knows that they are a part of some­thing big­ger. And I know-know that all humans deeply know-know that they are a part of some­thing bigger.

Reaching this place of lis­ten­ing to the know­ing is both nat­ur­al and very dif­fi­cult. What is a birthright or innate abil­i­ty has been crowd­ed out by a mod­ern soci­ety orga­nized to con­stant­ly, loud­ly, and urgent­ly demand our atten­tion. We are com­pelled to react and respond because our sur­vival depends on it. But while an indi­vid­ual human is able to endure the sys­temic noise of the way we live, humankind is hurt­ing, and in the end our collective—humans and the for­est we live in—is in seri­ous jeop­ardy. The sit­u­a­tion seems insur­mount­able. However, it is pre­cise­ly learn­ing to lis­ten to the know­ing that will help us all.

How do we get back to know­ing? As the kids these days say, “go touch grass.” The world, the envi­ron­ment we are a part of, has nev­er stopped know­ing. We can learn by obser­va­tion, and it is as sim­ple as watch­ing a bird fly or insects scat­ter­ing when you lift a rock, or sit­ting beneath a tree. 

How long can you look at a rock? Can you look at it for longer than five sec­onds? Ten? Thirty? A minute? Can you describe and find some­thing new about it as the moments pass? It’s very hard! But I promise you will reach a point where it clicks, you lock in, and you can touch some­thing beau­ti­ful about the col­lec­tive Earthly experience.

Practicing can be very easy; it just takes notic­ing. It’s the moment you savor the wind on your face or the way warmth radi­ates into your body from a sun-warmed rock. It’s you savor­ing the feel of a pet’s fur or notic­ing the way your breath feels in the back of your throat. From there, try to notice how you treat the peo­ple around you, if you’re not acci­den­tal­ly hold­ing your breath or after a hap­py encounter with a breeze. They may respond by treat­ing you with more kind­ness, and that syn­er­gy rip­ples out­ward from that sin­gle moment of con­nec­tion. This may seem insignif­i­cant, but a sin­gle leaf helps feed an entire tree, and that tree is a part of an entire forest.

If you’d like to con­nect more with trees, check out Tree Week Clark County from October 10 to 18. There are art activ­i­ties, a hike, walks, and ways to gath­er around the theme of trees. Learn more here (https://www.facebook.com/TreeWeekClarkCounty)