On change in nature and the nature of change
A lil' Sunday homily on creativity, growth, and hope -- AKA More of My Tree Bullshit. (With some bonus reassurance that authors will be okay if Twitter dies.)
I do a lot of work with the American chestnut restoration movement on nights and weekends. Have I mentioned that?
HAHAHAHA jk. Of course I have. And you’ll be glad to know it’s now escalated to the point that I’m on the American Chestnut Foundation’s Board of Directors. Thanks, THE OVERSTORY.
I wrote a version of what follows as a caption for TACF’s Virginia state chapter Instagram feed last week. I think it holds some metaphorical value for you all as well and will explain why in a moment.
(The only thing you need to understand going in is that Lesesne State Forest = a chestnut breeding orchard accessible to the public just outside of Charlottesville, VA.)
Lesesne State Forest is readying itself for winter. Just about every tree in the foreground is an American chestnut planted by forest scientists.
In the background are the Blue Ridge Mountains. They're the second oldest mountain range on Earth; did you know that? Only the Barberton Greenstone Belt in South Africa is older.
Look at them. Those gentle swoops are more than 1 billion years old: far older than any tree, plant, or multicellular animal species. When they emerged, the world contained one single megacontinent of land and barely any atmospheric oxygen. The planet still spun so fast on its axis, its days only lasted eighteen hours.
The world into which the Blue Ridge emerged wouldn't have been able to keep human beings alive for more than a couple of suffocating minutes. But now, that's no longer the case.
Those mountains were once taller than the Himalayas. Think what they've witnessed through the eons as they've eroded and softened and mellowed into themselves. Think of the millennia in which they were covered in American chestnut trees: turning white every June, surrendering piles of food to indigenous people and wildlife every fall.
Those trees were there for a long time—a few thousand years at minimum, perhaps many thousand more. In comparison to the whole of the Blue Ridge's existence, however, it wasn't long at all.
It's been a cosmic zeptosecond since the species left, all but eradicated by a fungal blight in the early 20th century. And now, already, like a wave returning to shore, set in motion by mankind, the species is coming back, rushing like the trees in this photo toward the foothills of their former home.
We live in a world that contains pain and death, sure. But on a cosmic scale -- if you pan way, way out -- you'll see that it's forever softening for us. Forever relaxing into life, change, hope, and possibility. Forever waving, waving, waving at our feet, meeting us where we are, ready to carry us somewhere we never even dreamed we’d go.
At this point, you may be wondering: what on Earth does that Instagram caption have to do with book publishing? With the life and work of a writer? With, well, me?
WELL, LET ME TELL YOU, BRENDA.