Hole in the Canopy

There was a gaping hole in the canopy of the forest that was noticeable even if you didn't look up.  I knew it by the change in the light and the feel of the air.  My senses picked up on the weight of absence - or maybe the memory of something that was, but no longer is.

With all of our recent walks in the woods with my friend, I feel like I've become more sensitive to the rhythms of the trees and the land on which they grow.  I've made numerous observations (mostly to myself) about what I have been seeing, smelling, hearing, and touching as we walk on leaf covered paths.  One of the most jarring revelations (if I can call it that) is that the trees in the forest, individually, are rarely the type of specimen that many of us would welcome in our overly manicured yards where only the finest examples are welcomed.

Yet, somehow, each of the trees in the woods, with all of their imperfections, belong.  All of them add something to the beauty and being that is a woodland.

The trees in the woods seem to be in a constant roller coaster between competition and cooperation.  

Each seed that germinates has little choice about where it has fallen.  It is where it is and that is where it must succeed - if it is going to.  Sometimes the most fertile ground that provides opportunity for new seedlings will result in clusters of trees that were certainly happy to land in such a good spot.  Only, after a while, they realize that they would like a little space for themselves and they lean away from their companions.

As they grow, each tree does its best to find its unique path to the sun and fresh air, sometimes bending back on themselves in contortions that are both amazing and painful to observe.  It is during these fall and winter months, when the leaves no longer create the umbrella that collects the sunbeams and converts them to food, that we can observe how much struggle each individual must engage in to grow and reach their own, best, potential.

During the warmer months, the cooperative nature of the trees becomes more evident when all but a few are clothed in their greenery.  The canopy holes are filled in most places and the sunlight is filtered as it tries to find its way to the forest floor.  

Except for this place.  Where the canopy has been torn and the outline of what was once a magnificent tree remains.  Almost as if the rest of the trees are mourning the absence of a once proud elder who no longer reaches for the stars, and the sun, and the open sky.

After the wake, the forest floor will come alive in future seasons and the dance will continue with new participants.  Each of them finding themselves where they are planted, trying to figure out if they will be the next proud tree to fill the vacancy.