Ever since I’ve left home, I’ve discovered that I am, in fact, quite fond of trees. I like many things, and I love many things, but fondness is a rare sentiment: I am fond of trees in the way that I am fond of the smell of old books, the clouds that saunter above my head, the warm notes of auld lang syne, and the tattered, dusty, lilac wallpaper that surrounds my childhood bed.
For the past few weeks, my father and I have developed a habit of going on walks early in the morning. As we wander around the neighborhood, whenever we saw a tree that we especially liked, we would stop our steps, stand still, and look at the tree for a few moments. The moments we stood and looked at the tree were my favorite; there’s just something that feels special about taking the initiative to stop, pause, look at, and truly see something. During our daily strolls, we encountered all sorts of trees: reddish oaks that stretches onwards toward the heavens; grayish-blue pine trees fuzzy around the edges; plethoras of mushroom-shaped trees, overflowing with lush, vibrantly green leaves; scrawny, gaunt trees on hilltops by themselves, branches bare and absent of life; trees whose branches droop heavily with the weight of pearly-white blossoms, a favorite of the birds and bees; trees that are home to beasts big and small alike—fluff-tailed squirrels scurrying up and down, red robins comfortably perched, and critters hidden from our prying eyes. I see these trees as we walk, and then I look at them, and then I realize that they are there, and that I am here, and something performs somersaults inside my chest.
I am fond of all sorts of trees; the kind of tree that I’m most fond of, however, is old trees. Unlike humans, whose existence is characterized by fragility at the start and the end of their brief lives, age grants trees vitality instead of vulnerability. The most ancient trees are the most breathtaking, in a way that renders inadequate the camera, the paintbrush and the pen. As I stand underneath the canopy of a tree like this, my eyes are drawn upward by the magnificently imbricate jumble of branches and leaves. The color of the tree goes through a gradient of greens—dark, rich, jungle green encompassing the center, the hue turning more and more saturated as sunlight seeps through the cracks and spreads toward the edges. The contour of the tree takes on a golden tinge; observed from afar, the tree shines as if it were blessed by a god that happened to pass by. It is indescribably beautiful, and I am inexplicably fond.
Living in the Anthropocene forces one into a conflicted headspace; we believe—either consciously or unconsciously or, more likely, a combination of both—that we as a species rightfully and incontestably dominate the planet. At the same time, we as individuals are plagued by the disease known as loneliness, in a world that feels too productive and efficient to leave space for us to exist. For me, trees remind me of how much more superior we believe ourselves to be than we truly are: these trees are bigger and more magnificent than I will ever be, they have existed before I was born, and they will continue to exist after I die. At the same time, I am comforted by trees—because they are unquestionable proof that I am here, that I belong here, and that the world welcomes me as it always does to the alive, to life. As I run my hand along the uneven, rough bark wrapped around the trunk, I can feel the terrifying realness of reality without being overwhelmed by it.
Reality is overwhelming, mainly because of the fact that it’s never the same. I’ve grown to accept that change is inevitable—at the same time, inevitability has never meant that change is comfortable, that it is in my control, that it is easy, that it is not accompanied by anxiety, by reluctance, by fear. To me, trees are comforting because no matter what changes happens, no matter how many mistakes I’ve made, no matter how many goodbyes I have to utter to people I love and care about, the trees that are there will still be there. For some reason, knowing this makes the present feel less infinite, the future less daunting, and it makes me feel less afraid.
I am fond of trees because they remind me of my place in the universe. I am fond of trees because I am, in turn, reminded of their place in the universe, and because of this, I am reminded that they are here, that I am here, that I am not alone, and that we are here together, that most importantly, I am—because we are.