Getting the Message

The sun set at 3:30 yesterday. I was by the lake to witness when it happened. Cars were rushing by on the other side, but I was hidden from the busyness by the quiet of the trees. We were all silent in the late afternoon.

Most of the deciduous trees around the lake are now bare of leaves, though one oak tree I walked under on my way still maintained its full compliment of leaves. I noticed because of the sound. There was no wind but the brown suspended leaves were all in a soft clatter of wordless conversation. It sounded like rain but the sky was clear. What were they up to, these dead leaves that should have been on the ground weeks ago? Were they collectively considering how long to hold on before giving way to the inevitable? Were they delighting in their aerial vantage point—gloating in the good fortune of the continuing suspension?

I don’t suppose the leaves care one way or another about their color or position, about their life or their death. Equally at home as tiny spring buds, as fully functioning green leaves and as leaf litter decomposing on the ground. The generations of flat factories play whatever role is assigned to them. In the summer they freely transform the sun’s light into portable packets of energy. Photosynthesis. Chlorophyll is the miracle worker that takes sunlight and water and carbon dioxide and rearranges it all into the sugars and oxygen that make our lives possible.

But these clattering leaves on a warmish December day have burned out. Probably yellow in October, today they are dull and brown and serving no discernible purpose. The green chlorophyll that hummed with life sustaining life all summer has fled. Factories are closed. Every one put out of work. What are they doing? Why hang onto the tree when usefulness is past? Are the brown leaves complaining about the brevity of their lives? Six months is not a lot of time in the scheme of things. The tree that still holds them this winter afternoon has seen sixty or seventy generations of leaves come and go without pity or gratitude.

Pity, gratitude and wonder are left for us two-legged creatures who pass in generations nearly as quickly as the leaves. Or do the tree beings and the leaf beings dream with us? Are they alive and conscious is some manner that is undetectable to our limited senses and imaginations?

I love reading snippets of the new research that is uncovering the multiple channels of communication among trees and other members of the ancient plant kingdom. I appreciate the native traditions that honor and respect the wisdom of each species of green living beingness. Of course there is more going on than we can measure or understand. I feel this standing under this medium sized oak tree on the side of the road the December day. Some subtle presence announcing itself. I stand still and try to receive the wordless teaching of this particular oak tree.

Trying too hard is an exercise in frustration. I remember visiting the Museum of Modern Art decades ago with a sculptor I apprenticed with briefly. Walking through the city to the museum, I confessed to him that I really didn’t understand modern art, it just confused me. He laughed and said ‘You’re trying too hard. Just stand in front of a piece and if you like it you like it. If you don’t, you don’t. That’s enough.’ Sure enough, on that visit, I noticed that some of the weird and crazy things I saw appealed to me and others didn’t.

So under the oak tree, I notice that I like this collection of inaudible sounds that adds up to the gentle shushing which touch my ears. Perhaps the tree is my mother and is comforting me. Perhaps she is singing a lullaby to the trees around her as they prepare for their long winter hibernation. Perhaps the sound simply soothes some restless part of my brain or tickles a tiny funny bone in my inner ear.

I pause and allow us both to be here together for a moment before I head on to the lake—in time to watch the winter sunset and appreciate my solitude in the good company of my quiet tree companions.