The indigenous people see trees as alive. People are like trees, and trees are like people. Trees can teach us a lot about ourselves.
We all have skin, just like trees have bark — some light, some dark, some rough, some smooth, just like the layers of our skin. Under the skin, and under the bark, is a new layer of growth. As we grow older and last year's layer is added to the layers that have formed over time, the cells remember those years of triumph and of trouble, of nutrients and of drought, of sunshine and of storms.
As humans, all the things we have experienced are there inside us — just like the trees. Each layer of growth is shown in a growth ring; for humans, it may be in our memories.
By examining a tree, it can tell you its history through its growth rings — closer together or farther apart, the good seasons and the bad. Damage from weather or from people's actions is reflected in the rings.
I recently turned a piece of 300-year-old white oak that was harvested from a tree that fell in a storm. It stood in front of a house in Knoxville, TN, that was once part of a Civil War camp. The tree was documented in historical writings as holding signs that pointed to different parts of the camp. It had black portions in the grain — stains from the iron in a cannonball that had impacted the tree more than 150 years ago. I looked at this part of the wood as I began to decide where it would be most prominent in the final piece, to display its trauma.
People, like trees, remember and hold traumas in our bodies.
In a tree, when new growth appears — when a new limb is starting — the grain of that section changes to support it. It provides more strength on one side to support the weight of the new branch; you can see it in the grain. And in people: when a child is born, we change our focus to support the new life we're responsible for, yet we must continue as usual in the other parts of our lives. The new growth (our infant) adds beauty and additional stress on that part of the tree (the family), while working to become one with the rest of the tree (our whole life). Families change their pattern of growth "rings" to support and nurture the new child.
Yet for a tree, during times of growth, not all of the tree becomes hardened and rigid as it works to support the new branch. The rest of the tree remains flexible — bending with the wind, absorbing sunshine and moisture, continuing to grow through its cycle with each passing season.
We are the same.
People often become hardened and less flexible over time when the storms of life apply forces to them. They are not flexible like the tree, and they will often break under those forces. We need to remember, like the tree, to become strong to support new life — and yet flexible to absorb the forces of life that come our way; so that we bend with them, and we do not break.
For me, woodworking is a spiritual experience with the tree nation. I look at trees in a whole different way than most people. Looking at their growth over time and wondering what they may have experienced in their lifetime. How can I create something from this piece of wood in front of me that honors all the seasons of its life?
When I see a tree broken in a storm and lying on the ground, I want to take a part of it and put it on the lathe — to expose the inner beauty and show the world what a complex and amazing life it had.
Seeing the inner life of the wood reveals both the good times and the rough times — and yet it persevered through it all, and shared itself with the world.
What can we learn from the tree people?
Are we so rigid that in the first major storm we encounter, we have no flexibility and break? Or are we going to remain flexible and bend with the prevailing winds, sharing our beauty and our lessons learned for another season?
So much wood. So little time to turn.
Don