I believe that trees are holy. They remind us of God. When I studied at Stellenbosch I daily visited the university's botanical garden. In the garden they had Olive trees that were grown from cuttings of the Olive trees from the garden of Gethsemane where Jesus spent his last night praying before his death. Praying under those trees I imagined myself being deeply rooted to the night his friends betrayed him and He died for them and also for me.
I have a friend that can really go deep when it comes to trees. Also a fellow Joburger, he grew up in the city with most trees in the world. Johannesburg is truly a manmade forest. My friend's name is Jan. A very Afrikaner name, although Jan is not your typical Afrikaner. (add your own stereotype here) Every now and then we will share a glass of wine and Jan will light his pipe. Most of the time we speak of trees. At every conversation he reminds me of how old trees are. Long before man, trees were. One of his favourite things to say is that "You can't tell a tree where and how to grow, the tree will tell you. They have been doing it for millions of years."
Trees have roots. They are grounded in a specific place and time. They all carry an ancient memory and a unique identity. There is a sacred story hidden in the tree. An ancient culture if you will. I see it with the young trees that are growing in my garden. From the start of their life journey they know how to grow and when to grow. Rooted in a context, most of them allow themselves to be utterly shaped by that context, although they are also able to keep their original history. The young Yellowood in my garden comes from the riverbeds of the Western Cape. Planted in a new environment it still however stays a Yellowood, but is deeply challenged by the winters of the Highveld. Frostbite can impact the growth the tree to such an extend that the tree might not see the coming of spring. For the next few months I have to cover it with the leaves of the bigger trees to protect it from the harsh elements. The Oak, originally from the Northern Hemisphere loves the hot new summers. It grows so much faster than its nephews and cousins in Europe. A fact that makes it impossible for South-African oak to be used for wine barrels, because of the fast growth, the wood is very porous and thus not able to be used to age wine in. The context shaped it, changed it, made it a local to its surroundings. Other trees however stay rooted elsewhere. The Black Wattle for instance, brought over by some of our great grandparents from Australia, is today labelled as an intruder, because it acts as if our soil, water and climate are like the parts of Australia where it came from. Where the wattle grows, it takes over, it dominates, it drinks the riverbeds dry. Instead of being changed by its context, the tree tries to change the context to suit the tree.
My favourite thing about a tree is that it is connected to a very old way of life, probably the first way of life since the beginning of life on earth. It lives in integrated seasons, where the one is not better than the other. We as humans might look at winter as something we would rather want to avoid, but for the tree winter is a time of deep growth, character building and life giving rest.
Trees know about suffering. In the mountains of the Western Cape, a flora specie called "Fynbos" (Bush that is timid, fine and gentle) needs terrible mountain fires once every other year for its seeds to be able to germinate. It is a natural way of the mountain to bring growth through deep suffering and pain. The "veld" knows this way and is rooted in this difficult journey. How ironic then that its name is associated with vulnerability and yet it needs the blazing heat of wild mountain fires.
Sometimes we are like Fynbos. We grow only through pain and suffering. Other times we are like the Wattle, we dominate, colonise and alienate ourselves from our surroundings and neighbours. We are resilient like the "White Stinkwood", able to grow wherever we find ourselves. We become places of safety and rest for other creatures, our branches go high and wide and our roots go deep into our Mother. We carry the scars of being planted in the wrong places. We live with the memory of pain that was inflicted when we were still saplings. We remember the drought and floods. Our bark reveals the times when we suffered severely, but deep inside our roots and branches we know the value of those difficult times.
This weekend we remember a time in South-Africa when the Wattle ruled. When the riverbeds were only available to some, while the rest suffered in the open, unprotected and tough surroundings. We are reminded that some trees were planted in the best soil, pruned on the right time and covered well during the cold winters, while others were exploited for its fruit without being nourished and cared for.
May we never go back to those times. May we remember the saplings that died. My we be silent for the great trees that fell. And may we have big "braais" with the deadwood of the Wattle. May the fires light up the night sky and unite the forest once again.
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