It was a stormy, windy night when the island’s power went out yet again. I found myself wondering about the trees — and who the hell was flying that prop plane slowly cruising overhead — while the big, bright ferry sat parked at the terminal across the narrows.
But the trees were far more interesting. I imagined them reveling in the storm, dancing wildly in the wind, exuberantly shouting “Yyyyyeeeaaaahhh!” and “Wheeeeeee!” (in tree language, of course). They’ve spent the majority of their lives standing calm and strong, unhurried. All of that spiraling and branching must have been done with the awareness that they’d be tested regularly by the elements.
I wonder if there’s a collective “Hooray!” when one of them falls — snapped in half or blown over to reveal its roots. Do the others nearby celebrate their friend’s dramatic and glorious exit?
I’ve always loved windstorms. Well, any storm, really. Thunder and lightning hold a particularly intense energy. As a young boy, I loved climbing the tree in our front yard, especially when the wind picked up. It wasn’t a massive cedar or spruce like the seasoned adventurers outside my window now, living here in coastal British Columbia. But it was tall enough to sway in a good breeze, and I’d climb all the way to the top. Enveloped by the overwhelming torrent of sound and movement, it felt magical.
And when this storm passes, as storms always do, the rains will come to wash away the dust. We’ll step over some debris, looking for the guilty parties. Those trees will no doubt just stand there innocently and stoically, perhaps muttering, “Nothing to see here. Carry on.”
“Oh? Then why are you glowing?”
Nature amazes.