What the Bones Tell

Years ago, in my incarnation as an English teacher, I had a colleague, a history teacher, with a passion for architecture.  Whenever we had to carpool together to a workshop or function, he would spend the drive pointing out to me the architectural styles of various buildings:  Federal, Greek Revival, Colonial, Georgian.  I never thought I would be interested in such a thing, but a person’s true passion for the details of anything can be quite infectious.  Even now, these many years later, I still find myself looking at buildings and trying to remember what he told me about particular architectural styles. I just wish I’d thought enough then to take notes.

One incident I especially remember from these impromptu ride-along lectures.  On a road trip to Portland, my friend pulled the car over in front of some god-awful monstrosity of an apartment building with haphazard additions, cobbled-on porches and rickety stairs.  That, he said sadly, is a crime.  Yeah, it is, I agreed; it’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.  He looked at me like I was one of his less-attentive students.  What? I said; I agree – it’s awful; the porches are sagging; the stairs are falling apart. Somebody’s going to get hurt. He rolled his eyes. Yes, yes – it’s a disaster. But what I meant was – the original building is a beautiful example of early 19^th-century Federal (?) architecture.  It’s a crime that someone would do this to it.  Oh, I said, embarrassed by my ignorance, and then asked:  How can you tell?  He went on to point out various details that, unfortunately, I can’t recall.  (I do remember one point being the way the chimneys, now crumbling, were placed.) Then he said something that stuck:  You can still see the “bones.”  The bones of the original architecture are still there.  You can always tell by the bones.

I have no knowledge of whether or not this is real “architecture” speak, or whether this was the personal expression of a passionate amateur.  But that’s what made my colleague pull the car over that day: he saw the “bones” of that derelict building – and they told him a story, because he knew how to hear them.

This winter, I learned to listen to different “bones” – the living bones of trees in winter. I didn’t set out to make this my “winter project.”  It just happened – the way my colleague pulled over to the side of the road all of a sudden that day.  Because I finally heard loud and clear what the bare bones of trees in winter had to say.

In many ways, my exercise was an intuitive/imaginative one.  However, the foundation was focused observation over a period of time and across many individuals.  After that, interpretation and felt-sense took over.  Observing trees – especially deciduous trees – in winter gives one the opportunity to see the pure structure of these beings – the bones, the skin, the posture, and patterning – before they are cloaked with all their beautiful distracting greenery.


Here are some of the things that the bones told me. 

  

Oak (esp. Quercus rubra & Quercus alba)

Oak stands alone.  Oak masts and saplings will group together, but as the oak grows, only one wins that area.  Rarely do large oaks stand shoulder to shoulder like maples do.  Oak stands alone.

        The dark branches of oak appear to crack the sky into splintered shards.  This is a Poe-tree, a tree of Gothic tales.  This is a tree that calls down lightning and the screaming Valkyrie.  A warrior tree, a Klingon tree.  And the bark of the Red Oak – our most common Oak here in Maine – is striped in red, as though streaming with blood.

The strength so apparent in oak is an aggressive in-your-face strength. Closely packed clusters of short gnarled twigs grow from the branches and grip dead leaves throughout the winter. Oak holds firm in earthy vigilance. Persistent. Protective. Aware.

Ash (esp. Fraxinus americana)

The tree of Clarity.  Straight clean open lines. A well-defined opposite branching pattern. The twigs on the branches are widely-spaced and sturdy, and a golden sheath sometimes seems to surround them, delineating each branch vividly against the sky.  The bark of the bole has the fine even texture of a beautiful cable-knit pattern.

The light and the air mingle in the branches of Ash. Illumination and spirit.  The open well-lit spaces needful for clear-sight and clear-thought.  Proportion. Definition. Structure.  After the dream, after the vision, the intention and manifestation. 

Lucidity and comprehension after doubt and struggle.

Maple (esp. Acer saccharum & Acer rubrum)

Maple thrives in community.  Maple is open-hearted, generous, and gentle.  Like Ash, Maple also has an opposite branching pattern, but Maple’s twigs are closely spaced like the barbs of a feather.  Thus, Maple lifts its long feathery branches gracefully skyward. To see a stand of young feathered maples lifts your heart. To see the still-graceful old maples makes your heart glow.
There is a singing quality to Maple; a happiness and joyousness more pronounced than in other trees. Their song is a hymn; an ongoing praise-song. There is a deep embracing calm to Maple. 

Old and young, maples are like the Whos in Whoville singing “Christmas Day will always be, just as long as we have we. Welcome Christmas, while we stand, heart to heart and hand in hand.”  (Substitute what you like for “Christmas.”) They make room for one another; they rejoice in togetherness.  They feed us with the sweetness of happy open hearts.

Beech (Fagus grandifolia)

Fluid muscular grace. Sinewy strength. Mercury. Quicksilver. Powerful serpent or god-man. Cold hard metal. Pewter in the sun. Copper in the rain.  The last to lose leaves. The constant whisper and chant of beech leaves in the winter wind.  

Like the powerful beings that Beech resembles, it is able to pull free of your imagination before you can pin it down.  Beech is elusive. A grove of Beech in winter always appears to be filled with its own mist as one is surrounded by the trees’ pewter glow. 

 

Beeches once walked the earth – or they will in future. They are filled with restless energy.  They are filled with cold hungry fire. They are closer to human than any of the trees.

Poplar/Quaking Aspen (Populus tremuloides)

Poplar is a liminal tree.  It lives on the edges of woodlands because it can’t compete in deep shade. It lives on the edge between this world and Faerie.  It lives on the edge between life and death. It trembles and dances between worlds.

Though in its youthful stage, Poplar’s bark can be nearly as white as that of birch, it lacks birch’s “shine.”  Young, it is a thin, gray ghost, muted and disappearing.  Its slender, often contorted, branches create a rounded, conical canopy. The twigs cluster in frilly lace-cap poofs on the branches.  

                          In maturity, Poplar appears in another liminal state: its lower bole dark and crevassed with age; it’s upper bole and branches still pale, smooth and youthful.  It’s as if it is slowly being turned to stone, or as if it were being wrapped in a dark wrinkled cocoon.  Poplar is a tree for elders.  Poplar is a psychopomp.

Black Locust (Robinia pseudoacacia)

Black Locust is strong, tough, passionate, and crazy!  (These are the trees I see from my kitchen window every morning. I included them because they are my particular friends, and I love them.)

These are the stories that the bones told me. I wonder what stories they will tell you.

(N.B. In the category of “Duh” – Here in the Northeast (I don’t know about elsewhere), we use the mnemonic “MAD Horse” to remember the few trees that have opposite rather than alternate branching patterns. It is an acronym for Maple, Ash, Dogwood, and Horse Chestnut. Viburnum lentago (Nannyberry) also has an opposite branching pattern, but that just wrecks the mnemonic!)