The closer I watched the tree, the more I saw how it never stopped moving, how it was vibrating constantly.
There’s a lot going on recently: a novel in development, a nonfiction book in development, several magazine articles, a TV series being pitched, plus all the normal business of being a person. But for the last two weeks I kept finding myself returning to a story I read recently, “A day in the life of an oak tree,” wondering if the author actually spent a full day observing the tree he described or just invented it, and also wondering what that would be like, to look at a tree for a sustained period of time.
So, I spent an hour observing a tree.
I share office space with a couple other writers. Outside is a wooden deck built around a tall citrus tree, with knobby yellow fruit and silent movement in its branches. Wednesday afternoon, I grabbed a notebook and pen, twisted the bezel on my watch, and pulled up a chair.
First of all, the tree was about fifteen feet tall, seven inches in diameter at the base, climbing skyward in three segments that were densely leaved. It was in flower, small white buds that were teardrop-shaped, some pink-gray shoots, some blossoms open to bees – the bees crawled into them, nuzzled them, then flew on to the next one. I tried to track how many bees I saw flitting around and gave up at nine.
Though the more I noticed the bees and the slight breeze that jerked the leaves, branches nodding, it became wild to me to realize how much motion was taking place. How long had this tree been trembling without stop?
After maybe twenty minutes, my mind drifted. I was tired, bored. I gazed into emptiness and clicked my tongue. I convinced myself I need to pee, I wondered what emails had arrived, I thought about what I told my therapist last week. Still, the tree was there, inches from me, a mystery. I gently coaxed back my mind, returned it to the moment. I reached out and touched the trunk, and found it cool. There was a fine grit of sand, the dust any surface outdoors acquires in Los Angeles. A small moth fluttered through my vision.
My mind drifted again. I eased it back. I tried to guess the amount of water circulating inside the tree, down to its root tips. I thought about the volume of sunlight being synthesized. I glanced at my wrist: forty minutes had flown by. Remarkable.
I wondered how different – to a tree – is a day in human time compared to a year. Sometimes I’m not sure myself.
I recently mentioned writing for the latest Travel + Leisure, about the art scene in the Joshua Tree region. The issue is on newsstands and was just posted online.
Also, here is that oak tree article, if of interest.
In tomorrow’s supplement for supporters, with three-plus things to love:
Music for both ballet and techno fans, a March album of folk-ambient, and other new releases
“The new ‘secret’ better way to get to Charles de Gaulle.”
Great new fiction about racket sports and a recipe for good, surprisingly fast at-home pizza
What the what
Meditations in an Emergency is a weekly dispatch from author Rosecrans Baldwin about something beautiful. Supporters receive a Sunday supplement with 3+ things to love, along with a longer piece once a month sent from the road, for some inbox wanderlust. ⛰️
Books mentioned in Meditations in an Emergency are stored in a Bookshop list.