Living things are difficult to describe. At what point can we detect intuitively that a thing falls into the category of "alive"? What do we do with things that fall in between life and non-life like a virus? I don't know strict, scientific definition of that answer, but what I do know is that as a human, I tend to know it when I see it. If we're frightened by the silhouette of something static, we can usually calm down pretty quickly because our deeper minds register that it contains no life. There is nothing enlivening the object, to give it any agency whatsoever in the world around it. It does not have a rising and falling chest, it doesn't have that vibrancy you can see in microbes and meerkats.
As I consider the trees in my neighborhood, while they don't have the same sort of rhythmic breathing undulations creatures with lungs and gills have, they do bear a profound resemblance that we take for granted. The more I think about this similarity, the more the reflection in the pond transforms as the waves die down and it becomes something like a mirror.
A tree gets its durability from its roots. We can't see the roots but without them, without a proper attachments to a part of the tree that slips out of view, the life would fall. Roots draw out nutrients from a compost of worm, fungi, and terra, a curious milieu but nonetheless vital. It's tough to see down into the root structure and it's vastly complex, but we at least know that they serve an incredible function. Mysterious, but necessary. The soul.
Next is the trunk. The truck of the tree tells us its history. It stands still under pressure and reminds the rest of the tree how long it's been around and why it was there in the first place. The trunk needs to stay steady for the rest of the tree to do its job. Each year brings a new ring and those rings tell a story of drought or rain, growing slowly each year and containing with itself a record of its past. The body and its scars.
The branches from the tree shed some of the constriction from the strict trunk and are allowed to sway and bow. they can try new forms, each different from one another in shape and size, and are allowed to bend and even break sometimes. But this is good. The tree needs a part of it that can reach out into the world and explore. The network of branches allows the tree to dance in the time of the wind. Its life is seen in the rocking of the branches as it catches on to the Spirit blown by the wind.
Finally, the most exciting part, are the buds at the end of the branches. For a child to grow, she must be allowed a place to play and take small risks. A pond would turn rancid if it did not have fresh water always and constantly coming and going. A young human needs experience where boundaries are steadily expanding outward. Otherwise, total shelter leads to total rancidity. The child needs one step in the home and one out in the world. The mother strokes and the father pokes. That's precisely the right balance when it's working well. The tree needs roots at one end, embedded in known truth and buds at the other end reaching out for the newness that can only be taken in one season at a time. It needs part of itself to stay steady through the season and another part that changes and refreshes on a yearly basis. It's a 1 to 1 analogue to a good system of government as I see it.
The tips of the branches are where the tree moves the most, enlivened by the wind, but held firm by the trunk and roots. The buds are the tree's threshold space between the known and the unknown. It's where the maximum amount of growth and renewal happen, but it's also the place where there's the most uncertainty and movement.
But that's where the fruit is.
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