October 27th, 2022
Data
All the leaves have fallen. They now lay like a fine multi-colored carpet on my still green front lawn. I refuse to rake them. Not yet. Our shaded backyard still has a fair amount of snow, but the front yard is a different story. The snow seems to have preserved the fallen leaves in their various brilliant colors. The ground contains both a memory of what was and a promise of what will be, and it’s fascinating to now look at my tree by not looking at my tree, but instead looking at it by seeing its scattered memory that will inevitably feed other creatures. Perhaps this is not fully unlike the memory of my father which feeds my soul though I can no longer look at him directly. Perhaps I’m arriving too quickly and unintentionally at affect. Is strict data even possible in October? Is James Taylor’s music perfect this time of year because of data? I think not. But alas, this is being graded so I will note some actual data.
First, while the leaves are gone there are fourteen or so cherries left hanging. It’s amazing that I didn’t realize this was a cherry tree even though the cherries, apparently, outlast the leaves! But no, I haven’t eaten any. Most of the cherries are withering. Still, they hang like small Christmas ornaments demanding attention amidst barrenness. Second, the bark is interesting. The older and thicker part of the truck feels as brittle as it always did, but some of the smaller branches still contain youth. They’re pliable and not at all rough to touch. I’ll be curious to see what the winter does to them. “Even youths grow tired and weary…” (Is. 40:30a).
Affect
I was surprised at how sad I was to write the word “all the leaves have fallen.” There are a few reasons for this. First, we are facing the possibility of leaving these sacred grounds. Moving here was incredibly hard. This land is very different from any I’ve lived in before and it frustrated me at first. Really, it did. The mountains are stunning, of course, but this place is so stark and different from the grounds that fed my story thus far. But I’ve come to love it. Should I leave, will I see the leaves bloom on this tree again? I’ll visit my neighbors to be sure, but I’ll miss the process that I took for granted these past years. The tree reminds me of this. But there’s more.
I now think of other trees. I see trees that look like the tree in “our” yard, and I find myself stopping to check them out. I no longer merely pass them; I now ponder them. Today I saw a really large tree – or perhaps a series of large trees – that looked a lot like “my” tree. Only cherries left there too. I was on my way to hold space for people to grieve a student who died by suicide. Why, Lord? Seriously, why so many students? Did I ever pass them on campus? Did I smile at them or ignore them like I ignored the trees? They’re so young and beautiful and brilliant. When I get sent their pictures it really breaks me. My heart feels like the old bark, ready to crumble at the slightest touch. Even though I rarely know these students personally it impacts me more than I can express to others, and certainly more than I can express to myself. A tree journal, apparently, helps bring out what was under the surface. Sometimes I groan when I walk our campus. Now that I think of it, I know which trees I have passed when I have groaned things “too deep for words” (Rom. 8:28). “All the leaves have fallen.” Today I’m sad and my tree reminds me of this. The trees have marked my memories. They always have, in fact. This is my gratitude amidst my sadness. To be seen groaning when no one else sees; there is grace in this.