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For almost no reason, a recent tree in my daily wanderings with Echo:
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And here’s a lovely passage from a book I was listening to this morning as I walked in a wooded spot. The book is Small Rain by Garth Greenwell, and it is extraordinary by every possible measure. It is, essentially, about a man who enters a hospital with a serious illness. I’m 80% through it and he is still there, still stuck with needles and tubes and connected to machines, all the indignities and anxieties, the strangeness and the mathematical inevitability of that world. But here he is remembering something, a beloved oak that fell on his property, onto his house, and the crew that came to take it away.
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These brilliant creatures, I thought as the workers clambered around the trees; these brilliant creatures, they stand up for so long and then they lie down. The oak that fell was dying already, it turned out, it was rotten inside, straight through the trunk. The woman had apologized to me for not flagging it in her inspection; sometimes it takes a long time before they show signs, she said, a tree can be dying for years, decades, and you’d never know. It was beautiful how they died, in the wild, in forests; as they rotted and the wood softened more animals took shelter in them, more insects feasted on them, even after they fell they served a purpose, enriching the soil, they had long lives and long deaths. And there was so much we didn’t understand, the way they communicated through intertwined roots and fungal networks, their huge lungs moving oceans. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine them sentient, ensouled, the only religion that has ever really made sense to me is the worship of trees.