Last year I was given an assignment in my final theology class (in my current degree) to keep a “tree journal.” This was something I was not looking forward to. I wanted to get on with the “serious” work of theology. But alas, I was being graded so…I kept the journal. This ended up being an incredible lesson on paying attention. Paying attention to the tree, of course, but also to my neighbors and myself. It was a rather transformative experience, in fact. These journals ended up being very personal and, for that reason, I hesitate to share them. But I haven’t stopped thinking about posting them and so, for better or worse, I have decided to post these “tree journals” from a year ago. I hope you find something of value in them. Many thanks to Dr. Christina Conroy for this assignment.
(A quick note about the format. We were to collect “data” on our tree, and then spill some ink on “affect.” Anyway, here’s my first entry).
September 21st, 2022
Data
This is my first week recording my tree’s data. It is, to be certain, unscientific at this point; I’m relying heavily on my own observation and will learn more about the intricacies of this close stranger as the semester goes on. This tree is the only tree in my front yard and was transplanted here about four years ago, a little after my house was build (I’ll explain my choice below). Since it was transplanted only four years ago, I image it to be less than a decade old. The leaves are currently variously displaying at least four different colours. Some of the newer leaves are still green. Not summer youth green, but still young enough. Young adults, maybe. Others are starting to turn and are a mixture of a darker green and deep red. Other are now fully red (almost burgundy), while still others have some dull yellow mixed in. The leaves are quite smooth to the touch but the edges are jagged and coarse. There appears to be fruit on the tree which is red and cherry shaped. The stem on the fruit also has the appearance of the stem of a cherry, though the fruit itself – if indeed it is fruit – is still quite hard to the touch. The tree is very thin and tall. I will later measure the trunk, but I imagine it to be 5-6 inches in diameter. The tallest branch (which probably needs to be pruned) reaches approximately ten feet. While the tree is young, the bark on some parts of the trunk feels like old, thin, brittle paper, which is ready disintegrate at the slightest touch. Some of it did, in fact. Lower on the trunk the bark is thicker though still quite brittle.
Affect
I’ve always been deeply moved and intrigued by trees. Someday I’ll write a book called The Gospel According to Trees. Well, maybe. Anyway, trees were important land markers for me growing up (and even still). There were the trees, for example, that marked the campground where we would spend several weeks each summer as kids. I saw the trees before I saw the sign to the camp and was always filled with joy when we rounded the corner and saw their bold welcome. I’ve also “heard” God near trees. Just prior to the pandemic, I was speaking in Grand Rapids, Michigan and made a solitary late-night trip to the church where I first worked in order to find the tree where God whispered into my soul at a significant moment in my life. I was devastated to see that they had removed the tree and expanded the parking lot. That tree, and trees in general, have been quite important in my journey. Even now there is a tree in Airdire that our family often talks about as we drive by. We see it standing as a compelling mystery in the middle of a large open field. People often stop to take pictures of it from a distance. Someday I’ll get close to it. But while all of this is true, I’ve been confronted with my bias at the genesis of this journal exercise. The trees that catch my attention are often large, out theresomewhere, and exotic in their own way, at least to me. But as Dallas Willard once wrote:
“familiarity breeds unfamiliarity.”1
The tree in my front yard is both astonishingly and faithfully there – as the neighborhood kids play next to it, as my wife and I enjoy wine in the evening with it in our view – and yet a total stranger to us. It stands, I suppose, as a reminder of my lack of attention.
A strange thing happened a few weeks ago. One of my neighbors said, “Did the lady come to your yard?” She didn’t. I had no idea what my neighbor was talking about. I soon found out that a lady whom none of us knew went from yard to yard and ate what looks like cherries from our trees. We all assumed that she was out of her mind and probably in the hospital somewhere nearby. It never dawned on us that perhaps she knew more about these trees than we did, even though we see them every day. Maybe she wasn’t out of her mind after all. Perhaps we were out of our minds, blind to what was right in front of our faces. Maybe she was seeing the beauty in Leah while we were looking for Rachel.
Or maybe she’s still in the hospital.
Anyway, I will befriend this tree. I’ll learn about it and look at it. I don’t expect much if I’m honest. This sad fact, of course, reveals more about me than the tree. But I’ve found that paying attention can open our hearts in particular ways and I’m open to that surprise.
Dallas Willard, The Divine Conspiracy: Rediscovering Our Hidden Life in God (San Francisco, CA: HarperSanFrancisco, 1997), 11