I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees.
- Henry David Thoreau - There was a house we used to pass by on our neighbourhood walks when we lived in Granville. It made me feel sad. Tragedy and loneliness hung heavy over it and around it like a thick rain cloud. It stood on stumps. The only thing beneath the house was a standard rubbish bin and a 50’s style kitchen chair, the once shiny chrome finish, rusted now, the grey vinyl seat worn, sunken with wear and time. The house was painted white but the years had weathered the siding leaving it dirty and dull. The windows were bare; not a blind or old cafe curtain to block the sun or provide privacy. With the windows open to the prying eyes of people like me passing by, you could see there was little in the way of furniture inside. A vintage dresser (duchess as they are oft referred to in Australia), could be seen through one of the bedroom windows, the surface empty and the mirror reflecting the barren walls. A chain-link fence surrounded the rectangular corner lot, containing the melancholy it oozed like a cemetery houses the dead. The grass that was mostly weeds was the only nod to landscaping. There wasn’t a single tree or shrub or garden bed. The lawn got mowed infrequently, but at least it did happen from time to time. A galvanized tin shed at the back of the lot must have housed the Victor (Aussie speak for lawnmower). Although there was room for a car, there was no evidence that one existed - the overgrown tracks leading to the entrance unused in decades. There was no air conditioner, so on the many hot and steamy Queensland days and nights, the windows were opened wide. There were no fly screens. Mick and I would often play a little game trying to guess what kind of person lived in such a house and why. My guess was always a version of the same theme. An older man in his 70’s or 80’s, a widower, depressed and alone. He had decided many years ago after losing the love of his life to cancer days after they married, that he would never allow himself to be happy again. He got rid of nearly everything inside the house (that they had just built and moved into), never planted a tree or a flower, and spent every evening sitting in the dark waiting for life to pass him by until the day he died and could be with her again. Any joy he had imagined for his life dissipated when she died leaving him alone at 27. Mick wasn’t so stuck on the same theme, as he had actually seen the old man sitting alone under the house from time to time. He never engaged passersby or responded to a wave. He did think my intuition had some merit though. I would sometimes wonder aloud if I should drop off a casserole or a banana loaf on his unpainted wooden steps leading to his door. Would it cheer him up? Or, would he be annoyed? If I trespassed onto his property, would I end up with a butt full of buckshot? Mick reckoned he might be a miserable old sod with a disdain for people and especially someone trying to force kindness upon him. Maybe he was content to wallow in his misery. Best leave well enough alone. I couldn’t shake the idea that this person was desperately sad. It is entirely possible that I was projecting my own idea of sadness onto this unknown homeowner. I would surely be suicidal if I lived like that. Not a single living thing outside my back stoop. Not a pot of pansies or a climbing vine or some fresh basil to snip. Not a faithful hound or an indifferent feline or a hanging bird feeder. Not a wee spot of shade to sit and drink a glass of cold lemonade, ice cubes clinking with each long cool sip. Nothing but the walls around me, the relentless Queensland sun baking the tin roof all day and the mossies flying in those open windows at night, driving me to the brink of insanity with their high pitched buzzing near my ear just as I was about to fall asleep. This wasn’t a home. It was a prison cell. A life without life. There has been much research in recent years about the secret life of trees and how they communicate in a fascinating complex underground relationship to one another. In his book - The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate, by Peter Wohlleben we learn that there is a sophisticated social, almost intelligent communal interconnectedness taking place underground in the root systems of forests. The trees are dependent on one another to survive and thrive. I have not personally done any scientific research on the human connection to trees but I can assure you I know intuitively that I feel a profound need to be near trees and plants. Forest “bathing” may be a new concept but it certainly isn’t new to me. A walk in the woods is as therapeutic for me now as it was when I was a child (before I knew it was providing therapy…or a bath). Maybe a few trees nearby could have made a difference to that lonely man and his apparent life without life. His isolated house propped up on dead stumps left him ungrounded and disconnected from any living thing. Hell, in times of frequent drought, even his weedy lawn would have been parched and brown - a reflection of its caretaker. There was nothing to feed him. Nothing to embrace him. He lived barricaded from nature - separate from the the energetic life force that may just have been what he needed to get off that rusty chair and out of that sombre dwelling from time to time. It seems unlikely his life or his surroundings will change any time soon. The happiest day of his life may end up being the day he himself returns to the earth. He may find his purpose was never about living, but rather about dying and becoming an energy source for a new life. For his sake, I hope that’s true. #lifeforce #connection #trees
6 Comments
Cuz
8/9/2022 05:31:07 pm
Such a sad story although you did make me smile at one point when you referred to getting “a butt full of buckshot”. It reminded me of Trojan Farms across from Grandma’s house. Dad had always said that if we hopped that fence to grab any of his cherries we would get just that! I think I was about 5 at the time and had no idea what that was but it didn’t sound like anything I would like.
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Deb
8/9/2022 07:06:54 pm
Pretty sure my brother and I got the same warning. 😉
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8/9/2022 06:01:52 pm
I have this on my Christmas list as a book for Jack. Maybe I'll gift it to you as well.
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Deb
8/9/2022 07:09:17 pm
Yeah…the subject matter is fascinating to me. As for the old dude…I had the same thought he may have been having the last laugh.
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Donna H
9/10/2022 05:34:54 pm
I can almost smell the flora and hear the leaves rustling! So peaceful!
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Donna HR
9/10/2022 05:36:24 pm
Very moving Debra. I,too, frequently enjoy walks among trees. So good for my soul.
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DEBunked.I see nature as a metaphor for life. Please join me on this journey down the garden path as I explore life through story - a shovel in one hand and a camera in the other. Archives
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