My kids call it the ‘poking tree’; the old dead oak in the woods behind our house. The tree is thick enough that I can’t link my arms around it. Looking up from the base, its branches splay out to the sky, dwarfing the other trees in the immediate vicinity. There three ragged gashes at the base of the tree, the biggest about a foot wide, extending about 10 feet in the air. The heart-wood, in these exposed sections, has mostly decayed and spilled out in a saw-dusty pile around the base of the tree, which allows a clear view through the gaping holes. The remaining heart-wood is dried out and brittle; we reach in and dislodge large chunks; they are honeycombed and as light as Styrofoam.
Each time I go to the woods I half expect the tree to be toppled over and resting on the leaf strewn ground. The whole weight of the tree is dependent on the exterior bark, which is deeply ridged and fissured, about two inches thick. But it seems impossible that the tree can buck the wind with so little anchoring it the earth. Yet there it is every time, still upright, majestic at a distance, critically injured up close.
I think of our own lives, of the roots that we sink, and the foundations we use to help us reach skyward. Can we be similarly eaten away from the inside, whittled down to an exterior husk, and yet remain standing? Without exterior cracks, a means to survey the damage inside, do we have any way of knowing who is alive and growing, and who is already stunted and dead?
My kids grab sticks and poke at the holes in the tree. Sawdust spills out and falls to the ground. I want to grab a pile of sawdust, a hunk of honey-combed wood, the tree’s lifeblood scattered uselessly on the ground, and shout, ‘Don’t ever let this happen to you.’ But they are mere saplings, supple and strong, too young to be hollowed out and decayed. I let them take in the dappled sunlight, and hope my own looming shadow doesn't get in the way.
Each time I go to the woods I half expect the tree to be toppled over and resting on the leaf strewn ground. The whole weight of the tree is dependent on the exterior bark, which is deeply ridged and fissured, about two inches thick. But it seems impossible that the tree can buck the wind with so little anchoring it the earth. Yet there it is every time, still upright, majestic at a distance, critically injured up close.
I think of our own lives, of the roots that we sink, and the foundations we use to help us reach skyward. Can we be similarly eaten away from the inside, whittled down to an exterior husk, and yet remain standing? Without exterior cracks, a means to survey the damage inside, do we have any way of knowing who is alive and growing, and who is already stunted and dead?
My kids grab sticks and poke at the holes in the tree. Sawdust spills out and falls to the ground. I want to grab a pile of sawdust, a hunk of honey-combed wood, the tree’s lifeblood scattered uselessly on the ground, and shout, ‘Don’t ever let this happen to you.’ But they are mere saplings, supple and strong, too young to be hollowed out and decayed. I let them take in the dappled sunlight, and hope my own looming shadow doesn't get in the way.
I grab a stick and join in the fun.
1 comment:
I think of our own lives, of the roots that we sink, and the foundations we use to help us reach skyward. Can we be similarly eaten away from the inside, whittled down to an exterior husk, and yet remain standing?
I like to think so, that the tearing down can be temporary, with the foundation strong enough to ensure survival.
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