A cypress seed
I planted thee
Beyond the lee
Of God’s own tree
In grace you grow
I cannot know
How tall, how long
The winds may blow
Roots in stone
I stand alone
Yet live with you
Thy seed is sown
The journey I’m on is one to take a lifetime. If a tree is the grand metaphor of my human experience, right now I feel that I am just a seedling. I have found the spark of germination; I’ve sent down those nascent exploratory roots; I’ve raised my delicate cotyledons into the casting rays of the sun, life-giving it does shine on my first few leaves. I am growing. But the path before me, if I am to put on rings and become a true wooden one, is long and winding yet.
This volume of our story, of the wonderment of the Monterey cypress, is one of reflection, of where we are together, Old Hespero and I, where we’ve come from, and where we may go next. When I think back on the past five years of my life, in this chapter of embracing identity as an arborist, as a man of the trees, my gratitude for their silent, standing company grows high above the forest. I know not what my life would be without them.
A seedling isn’t a sure thing. It’s vulnerable, not quite settled and established amidst all the variables of life. A turbulent season, a tough day, even a harrowing moment can upend its entire being. A seedling is fragile when exposed to the harsh elements – the scorching heat, the blustering wind, even perhaps the trampling underfoot by man or machine unawares. There are a thousand ways for a seedling to perish, to lose its wandering way. A seedling is oh so delicate, bending and unrigid, without wood. A seedling, for now, is small.
But it is growing. Its roots are searching, exploring the soil unseen for nutrients and moisture to help itself become tall. A seedling that is nourished, supported in its development by the community of its neighbors, by the stewards that tend, and by the growing grace of mother nature herself; a seedling on this journey may come to thrive.
None may grow alone, without resource, without encouragement, without time. Yet many may grow together, in fellowship, with tenderness across the fateful seasons. I am a seedling; perhaps, too, are you?
I have said before, that every tree, no matter how grand, was once but a humble seed. The seed becometh seedling, may be nurtured on to sapling, to then strive on as a growing leader, to mature and then one day stand tall among its brethren and define the forest of tomorrow.
Now, I am a seedling, and I will try for the sun.
There is much work, and learning, and yearning towards the light on my way ahead. I know the color of a tender cypress branch, its transformation from a supple whitish-green primary stem, to then become the pith, stiffen and swell with the first ring of wood, turning brown in its evolution of branching out.
What, I ask, is the grown wood of the human spirit? As like we age, might Homo sapiens harden into a durable strength along with Hespero? I am a wandering seeker of such a way.
And, like Hespero, I am oft wounded. Some parts of us grow only to fail, snapped along the stem. Some limbs tear out and leave a grievous scar upon our trunk. Some new branches are misguided in their direction, and must be thoughtfully pruned to restore a structure that might stand the test of time. And with each pruning, too, we must carefully manage the ensuing response to change across the seasons. Growth and stewardship is not a one-time event, but an ever-present process.
Both the tree and the arborist that cares should tend with tact, so for the seedling to last. In time, our wounds may seal, our lives may heal, and our paths in kinship may thread together in healthy, engrained union.
The fibers of connection between Old Hespero and I are beyond a juvenile stage; our sylvan bond is veteran now. But with these words, and more I know to follow, the writing upon the tree-hewn page is humbly young. Miles to go, indeed, before our rest.
If you are reading this, thank you. I am deeply grateful, truly. I am just climbing, one branch at a time, finding my way in kind with the woods, a journey bound by words.
This is my story; I hope for you to climb and find your own. A voice guided by passion and purpose, down the hillside to the cemetery filled with trees and our own kind; yours, too, is a voice we need. If we each are seedlings growing, I hope to find you, way up there, striving for the sky some day.
