The man who wants to be a tree
Can we let him?
Imagine, if you will, a man who desires to be a tree. If not physically, then at least metaphorically. He sees himself standing there: sturdy and upright, serene, possessing the wisdom of ages gone by. He longs for the tranquility of the woods in the morning and the camaraderie of his brethren standing firm around him. He can feel the wind rustling his leaves and smell that musty sweetness rising up from the forest floor. Imagine this person standing there all day, unmoving, years on end, his arms raised. Come rain or shine, this is what he needs to do. This is his life. This is what he lives for.
Now ask yourself: does this man have a place in our society? Would we as society grant him the means to live a decent and fulfilling life, even if we didn’t understand his distinctly non-conforming behavior?
This man’s existence — I gave life to him in an engaging, yet meandering discussion some friends and I had a couple of days ago — visibly riled one of my table mates. Where lies his contribution to society? Should society support such an individual?
“Unable to carry our own pain, or even being oblivious to it, we make ourselves soldier on regardless, and demand the same of others.”
Well, what if he asserts he is an artist and his performance is an indictment of the clearing of tropical rain forests or a questioning of the expected role of men as strong and impervious protectors? We might be tempted to say, “Oh of course, in that case, how post-modern!” We may still not understand him, or keep on thinking he is an idiot, but now at least as an “artist” he may qualify for subsidies and we should tolerate his behavior. Objectively, however, not all that much has changed. We are still in the dark regarding his motives, only our perception of him will have shifted.
Do we really want the rules of society to determine how we treat a person? Can we not grant him dignity and respect simply on the basis of him being human?
Get with the program!
What’s more, his motives, as often is the case, may be hidden from himself too. And, even if he is aware of his motives, he may feel reluctant to share them, simply because we as society may not be receptive enough and it may not be safe enough for him. He may fear ridicule, expulsion, or worse. It could, however, truly be that he needs to be this tree at this point in his life, in some unfathomable—or even therapeutic—way. Maybe he is incapable of doing anything else at this moment and is recoiling from pressure contemporary society puts on people. It may be that he is grieving and finds no other way of expressing that grief. He may be shedding his winter skin, on his way to blossoming into a more aware, complete and authentic soul. It can be any of a million reasons of which we do not know. Or may never know. Or need not know. Yet, we remain eager to judge, do we not? “How useful is he? What is his contribution? Why should I work my butt off while this guy can be a, what, a tree?? Come on! Get real. Get with the program!”
The man in our example may be a bit contrived, even absurd. He was designed to provoke a reaction. Yet, he is but one of untold legions of fellow humans who need to take a break from the “reality” society imposes on them. A reality we’re imposing and, frankly, one which we are ourselves accepting, a “reality” so dehumanizing, undignified and utterly unbearable, if not lethal, that many can no longer cope. Unable to carry our own pain, or even being oblivious to it, we make ourselves soldier on regardless, and demand the same of others. Out of touch with our own needs, we despise those who are aware of them and who behave accordingly. We judge them as not measuring up, while in reality it is we who are seriously lacking. In a society that tries to find meaning by measuring everything down to the last “significant” digit, that attempts to quantify and analyze every word we speak and record every step we take, we have become utterly blind to the unmeasurable: love, kindness, compassion, affection, frailty, tenderness, forgiveness, vulnerability, need. In the process, have we not lost far more than gained? All this man asks of us, and which we can’t seem to give him, disturbed by him as we are, is that we accept his humanity in its purest form.
In case you haven’t figured it out by now: this man, he is me. He is very much a part of me. After years of hard work, of purposefully guiding my life in a new direction, I’m witnessing a rebirth of my authentic self—the self I was born as, but soon had to lock away deep inside of me. With this reconnection with the essence of who I am, I’m finally able to appreciate the liberating and absolving notion that is being, purely being. Still very much wrapped up in doing, or often clinging onto the superficially comforting assumption that I have to be something, or someone, to somebody, all the time, I yearn to just be. Not more than that. And certainly not to do. A tree in the woods, a flower in a meadow, a pebble in a brook. When all the pressure of the world on my shoulders becomes too much (Be there! Move forward! Do! Act! Solve!), when it becomes too much to bear, when I’ve been strong for so long I feel drained and close to collapsing… I want to be that tree. You can sit in my shade. I’ll protect you from the scorching sun. I’ll shelter you from the raging storm. You can scale my trunk to see far and wide, and scratch your eternal love in my bark. But only if you allow me to be, to be me, to be that tree.
“With this reconnection with the essence of who I am, I’m finally able to appreciate the liberating and absolving notion that is being, purely being.”
How to be a tree
And (be honest!) perhaps, in a way, you long to be a tree too? A tree in the woods, a flower in a meadow, a pebble in a brook. It doesn’t matter. Whether you are a man or woman, cis or trans, artist or scientist, whatever flavor, if we could drop the labels and the judgements, wouldn’t that be bliss? What if I felt good with you just being, with you simply existing? What if you loved my simple being, simply being?
Picture a dense woodland covering an endless mountain range. Hills rolling to hazy horizon. Thicket blanketing slope after slope. Together we stand—aspen, firs, oaks, maples, chestnuts and willows—resisting the gale that tries to break us, to mow us down. We are strong because we allow ourselves to be. We are rooted. Life thrives at our roots and in our canopy. We are forest. We are community. We are one. An intricate web. We are.
Except… we‘re not now. Not yet.
In the world we have created for ourselves—or more accurately, the world we authorized to be devised for us—the deck is stacked heavily against those who cannot keep up. Which is, we would have to recognize, every one of us at some point in our lives. There is almost no humanity left in the world of rules we all toil under. We lack space for this man to be what he needs to be. We are irked by his behavior, and perhaps with reason. “The world simply doesn’t work this way,” is a common retort. And while we’re busy judging one another, we fail to notice the context in which all of this is taking place. We are slow to challenge the validity of the system and its rules. We do not resist its suffocating grip. We restrict our thinking to stay neatly within its confines, fearful it might single us out and convict us, send us to the “gulags” for nothing more than our desire to be, to be a tree. And so, silently we accept that we will never be. We will never be good enough. Never be enough. With every goal reached, the yardstick just grows longer. This is not a race we can win. Not a race any of us can win. Not even a race. There is no finish line. There never has been.
We might as well stop running.
And take root.
