A conversation

Saturday, February 2nd, 2013. 11:45 a.m. Grey.  14 degrees.  The coldest day of the year.

Black boots... Check. Black pants... Check. Black sweater... Check. Black overcoat... Check. Black snow hat… Check.  Black hoody from the overcoat…Check. Black gloves given from the Humane Society… Check. Black pen… Check.  Black and white notebook... Check.

Given my outward appearance, it would seem as if there was something funereal about to happen. As I approach Flagstaff Hill in my stygian, atramental colored attire, the soft white dusting of snow descending from the sky falls gently to its resting place. It is not snowing hard…Just enough to know that there may be angels hovering above spreading their white powder from their wings. Perhaps they are waiting in anticipation for some kind of funeral today after all.

Ascending the white frosted incline towards the top of the ridge the contrast of black on white is augmented by the ashen somberness of the sky.  Coupled with the cinerea of my thoughts, the scene seems to have lost all color. I am traversing inside of a black and white movie landscape, a film noir.

The stanchions of leafless and lifeless White Ash trees lined up in rows and columns rimming the top of the crescent shaped incline stand like a battalion waiting for battle. Are they protecting the hill from the encroachment of the civilization below, demarcating where development should cease? Or, are they preparing for a different kind of fight: a Civil War within nature herself?

Although the funeral may be premature, the impending loss of these sublime hardwoods from the introduction of the emerald ash borer beetle (EAB) into this eco system promises to dramatically change the canopy of Schenley Park and Flagstaff Hill. If this beautiful and noble tree loses its fight, the encroachment of a different kind of human intervention will cultivate the flourishing of a nonindigenous species to replace it. The trees in waiting from the rank and files, lurking behind the proud patrician White Ash front, are the Norway Maples. A large and lush tree, it may just overtake it’s brethren without any infestation of pests or disease that portend the White Ash’s future. It is an invasive species, planted here by man. The Pittsburgh Parks Conservatory claims that “It achieves dominance over native plants through its abundant production of seedlings, the deep shade produced by its canopy, and the release of phytotoxic chemicals that inhibit the growth of other plants.  By contributing to the lack of understory plants, Norway maples also help cause erosion and compacted soil.” Perhaps I am dressed for the occasion.

The Arctic wind chills my bones and makes them brittle, difficult to move.  The freezing temperatures are transforming my movements and thoughts from a fluid liquid state to a more rigid solidified one. I can feel my molecules slowing down enough that their attractions cause them to arrange themselves into fixed position just like the trees above me. The wind is blowing hard and fast and no branches are swaying. Perhaps they are saving every bit of energy for the unknown impending spring.

In this stinging piercing cold, I feel sad for the tree. I tell myself “At least it doesn’t feel the frigid light air that blows, like a diaphanous ghost, through anything it contacts. “ But can’t it?  A tree does feel doesn’t it? It certainly registers things and changes when you do things to it. It may not know what it must confront in the future, but I learned somewhere that if I could turn on my alpha waves and sit beside it, it will pick up those alpha waves. We call trees wise for a reason.

Some people might say they don’t have any intelligence because it has none of our civilized structures, technologies, art galleries, concert halls, automobiles, religion, etc… But the trees remind me that it is only us poor uncivilized beings who need to have all of those things around to tell us who we are and what it’s all about. Looking at the trees tells me we are messy and inefficient and are cluttering up everything with our culture. The tree has it all built into itself.  Unlike myself, the tree doesn’t need to go running around to stay warm in this cold. It doesn’t need to be moving to know anything about the world because its sensitivity extends all over the place. They pick up the waves and pulsations of life and death. The trees here have vibrations inside of their fibers that are every bit as sonorous and harmonious as the music played in the Carnegie Music Hall down below.  They are not just standing there, doing nothing, waiting for the emerald ash borer beetle or its rival, the Norway Maple, to overtake them someday. They are living. They are vibrating in ecstasy.  They are humming to the great hum that is going on everywhere. 

 

The sound of a distant locomotive interrupts my brief respite from the burning cold and reminds me of its slashing cruelty. It is remarkable how putting your concentration on something other than yourself can alleviate any feeling or sensation you experience or carry with you.

I give my respect to the squadron of trees and bid them adieu. The striped masks and brown coats of the Carolina Wrens hop along, pecking at the grass, and look at me without trepidation. Their close proximity suggests that there has been a kind of trust formed between us during my visit up here on the hill. Perhaps the trees have spoken to me. Perhaps it’s time to go home to change my clothes and put on something more colorful.