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Abstract

shable from the last.I’ve come to the woods to retreat from a chaotic world. Surely these trees hold the answers.Is it flexibility, the ability to bend and sway in stormy weather?Is it deep roots, tapping into resources well beneath the surface when refreshing rain does not come?Is it standing together with others, sheltering one another, providing shade and protection for saplings to grow strong?“What kind of tree would you be?” the famed journalist once asked. But the question is unclear. What kind of tree would I be if I were one now, or what kind of tree would I aspire to be?Maybe I’d choose to be a beech, with its smooth bark, seamlessly concealing flaws and losses. A surface barely belying the memory of shed limbs and abrasions.Or a maple, proudly showing off its scars. Accentuating them with misshapen bulges and exaggerated cuts, surrounded by deep, crusty bark.A pine? Soft and limber. Colorful, fresh, and bearing fruit even in winter.</

Options

p>Possibly a gnarled and diseased Russian olive tree, with fascinating bumps and lumps. A “garbage” tree, some call it. Yet resilient and beautiful with silvery leaves.Birch, perhaps. Choosing to live near brooks, shooting out roots into wet soil, perpetually shedding thin, spindly branches and papery bark.How would I choose from the endless variety of unique and beautiful species? I want to be them all.I’ve done all the talking, I realize. I still myself, listening silently for the tree’s wisdom.Birds squawk. Crickets chirp. Squirrels scamper and burrow.I breathe in the woodsy air. And wait.The tree remains soundless and gently releases golden leaves, which float and drift wordlessly where the wind commands.It is enough.© Tina L. Smith, 2020About the writer: Tina L. Smith is a Michigan-based writer who has enjoyed a lifelong love affair with trees. Doesn’t everyone have a favorite tree?</article></body>

A Talk with the Trees — Seeking Secrets

Nature’s wisdom

“How do you do it?” I whisper earnestly to the tree, towering high above me.

“How do you stand, year after year, enduring high winds, raging heat, numbing cold, furious storms?” I ask, as humans have asked trees for eternity.

“What’s your secret for enduring, with unflinching beauty, without complaint?”

I glance aside and see a fallen comrade, once tall and proud. Alas, even majestic beings are mortal. How long had this valiant soul lasted before falling? I bend to count the rings. But the rings blend too subtly from one to the next, making each year’s inscribed elements and trauma indistinguishable from the last.

I’ve come to the woods to retreat from a chaotic world. Surely these trees hold the answers.

Is it flexibility, the ability to bend and sway in stormy weather?

Is it deep roots, tapping into resources well beneath the surface when refreshing rain does not come?

Is it standing together with others, sheltering one another, providing shade and protection for saplings to grow strong?

“What kind of tree would you be?” the famed journalist once asked. But the question is unclear. What kind of tree would I be if I were one now, or what kind of tree would I aspire to be?

Maybe I’d choose to be a beech, with its smooth bark, seamlessly concealing flaws and losses. A surface barely belying the memory of shed limbs and abrasions.

Or a maple, proudly showing off its scars. Accentuating them with misshapen bulges and exaggerated cuts, surrounded by deep, crusty bark.

A pine? Soft and limber. Colorful, fresh, and bearing fruit even in winter.

Possibly a gnarled and diseased Russian olive tree, with fascinating bumps and lumps. A “garbage” tree, some call it. Yet resilient and beautiful with silvery leaves.

Birch, perhaps. Choosing to live near brooks, shooting out roots into wet soil, perpetually shedding thin, spindly branches and papery bark.

How would I choose from the endless variety of unique and beautiful species? I want to be them all.

I’ve done all the talking, I realize. I still myself, listening silently for the tree’s wisdom.

Birds squawk. Crickets chirp. Squirrels scamper and burrow.

I breathe in the woodsy air. And wait.

The tree remains soundless and gently releases golden leaves, which float and drift wordlessly where the wind commands.

It is enough.

About the writer: Tina L. Smith is a Michigan-based writer who has enjoyed a lifelong love affair with trees. Doesn’t everyone have a favorite tree?