Dead Trees

I've been spending a lot of time in the woods lately. Two weeks ago, I was up on the Canadian border, on the edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. We hiked to Magnetic Rock, and up to the High Cliffs above Gunflint Lodge. The poplars glowed a muted gold, and a few flaming maples shouted amid the pines.


I've been out to the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum, where you can wander

through the woods with only the birds for company. In the late afternoon, you can walk under tall oaks and maples, listening to a pair of owls call to each other. You can stand, mesmerized by a flock of robins, hovering in a tall ash tree near a winterberry bush, watch as they take turns diving deep into the shrub, feasting on its red berries, then flying back up into the tree.

Five minutes from home is Hyland Park. You
can hike through woods and grasslands, up to a ski hill where the city spreads out below. Beyond
Bloomington's tallest buildings, you can see their echo in the Minneapolis skyline.  Wild turkeys saunter on the slopes. You can encounter a large salamander sunning in the path, who will seem as stunned as you at the encounter.

It's fall in Minnesota, a glorious, post-mosquito, pre-blizzard moment. Nature is spectacularly adorned, perfect. But when I'm in the woods, I notice the dead trees. They're not hidden away, something to be ashamed of. They stand tall as long as they are able, among the young and growing trees. Then they lie at their feet, rotting, until they are no more.

We're uncomfortable with death. We see it as a failure to live. If only we were better, stronger, smarter, thinner, healthier, we would live longer. So we strive to be the best.

Donald Trump is a master at this. He is smarter than the generals, healthier than Hillary, more Christian than the evangelicals, and stronger than, well, everybody. He cannot acknowledge any weakness, or his world will collapse. But that is not sustainable. No one is without some rotten parts.

The forest knows how to use dead trees to nourish growth. I am comforted by this.

Hope

I love this tiny tree! It's on my dog-walking route. It wasn't planted. There are a few of them in random spots in the yard, spruces and maples so tiny that you would miss them if you didn't look carefully. This one is shorter than the lawn around it.

The homeowner has taken care of the seedlings. Tiny oases of red cedar mulch surround them. Lawn mowers make tight circles to avoid destroying them. If they are lucky, they will be buried in snow before the real cold comes, so that they have a chance of surviving the winter.

This is hope.

It's hard to feel hopeful these days. People are afraid of each other. People are afraid of the other. They are alarmed. They joke nervously about moving to Canada after the elections, as if our country will be uninhabitable, and only the great frozen North can offer them sanctuary. I met a guy from Canada last summer. "I only have room for about five tents in my backyard," he said before I even asked. He's used to the joke.

There are real things to fear. Bad people with guns kill. Good people with guns kill. The end is the same. Bodies in the street, in the mall, in the nightclub.

Then there are the imaginary things we choose to fear. Race, religion, difference. None of those should keep us up at night. None of those should influence our choices during the day. Yet lean a little to the right, and you can see hordes of brown people pouring into our country, knives in their teeth, grenades strapped to their belts, assault rifles strapped to their backs, ready to rape and kill.

Turn to the right, and you enter the bathroom, America's most dangerous public space, where evil men pull on a skirt so they can attack your young daughters. And who is applauding them? That woman who only wears pants, who presumes to be our leader.

People grab for seventeen guns to protect themselves. They believe that the greatest danger they face is being unarmed in the America they have imagined. They need their guns to face the world.

It's hard to hope, but somebody nurtured a tiny tree. The snow will come, and it will disappear. If it survives the winter, it will grow again, no matter who is elected president. No matter who is on the Supreme Court. No matter who has guns. I'll look for it in the spring, with hope in my heart.