Notes from the Editor's Desk -- 4/3/23

Trees are only alive at their leaf bearing points and at the extremes of their roots. Past a certain stage of maturity what was once green wood becomes little, if not nothing, more than plumbing, or so I was confidently informed by a person I know to be enamored of trees. This was passed off as trivia days ago, but it had the character of the incidents that, though seemingly inane in the moment, mature over the course of days or months and find ample expression. A new frame of reference is demanded by the every tree that I pass, the walnut, pin oak, white oak, and locust becoming once again unfamiliar to me. No longer are they my contemporaries whose impressive bodies suggest fellow walkers of the earth, their strides merely interrupted for a time while mine continues amongst their ranks. Instead, they exist above and beneath me, almost purposively so, where they can but breathe beyond human company or the human capacity to interfere. What is within my reach is merely the statuary of a since departed society. This simpler function seems the less burdensome, the more elegant, and therefore the truer.

Man, I realize, is alive and dead in layers. Habit in human life is multi-faceted, but much of it becomes plumbing, the vessels through which our daily tendencies run. Though, for a moment, disquieting, to be at peace with this notion, to realize that death’s structures are cohabitant with the living element, allows for the fuller expression of the unexpressed. How changed man becomes under this alternative scheme, the postman, commuter, contractor, and the jurist becoming once again unfamiliar to me. Everyone reveals a sensitive life that strives to function outside the world’s interference, just as they lead a significant life within the world’s reach, and these are layered, intertwined, with each flowing into each.