Walked past the same oak tree on Elm Street today that I’ve been walking past for fifteen years. Today, for no reason I can articulate, I stopped and really looked at it. Not the quick glance you give familiar things, but the kind of looking that makes you realize you’ve never actually seen something before.
That tree has been there longer than the houses around it, longer than the street itself probably. It’s watched this neighbourhood grow up around its roots like a patient grandparent observing the chaos of family life. What does it make of us, these hurried bipedal creatures who seem to spend most of our time staring at small rectangles?
I Started wondering if trees have a completely different understanding of time. Maybe what feels like decades to us is just a season to them. Maybe they’re operating on geological time, having conversations with each other that take centuries to complete. We might just be witnessing single syllables of tree-speak.
There’s something humbling about standing next to something that was here before you were born and will be here after you’re gone. Makes you reconsider what counts as significant. That meeting I was rushing to, the email I forgot to send, the argument from last week - all of it suddenly feels very temporary against the backdrop of oak-time.
Touched the bark on impulse. Felt solid, obviously. But also somehow aware. Like shaking hands with someone who’s been waiting patiently for you to notice they were there.
Probably just my imagination running wild again. But then again, maybe imagination is just another word for paying attention to things we usually ignore.
The tree didn’t say anything, but I got the distinct impression it was amused.