Forests and Aging
by Elouise
Every time I visit my adult children these days I have aging on mind. My recent hike in a forest brought it all back.
Signs of death are everywhere. Like a slow dancing rain, falling leaves drift down and around us. A seemingly sturdy tree, rotten from the inside out, lies collapsed under its own weight, apparently brought down by a sudden storm or wind. Several large pieces of the trunk lie directly in front of us.
This isn’t Longwood Gardens, where cosmetic surgery is performed every day of the week. Keeping everything picture perfect. Almost, but not quite devoid of fading blooms or leaves yellow before the official start of autumn.
Here in the forest death seems as normal as life. Picture perfect photos aren’t possible. Which is how I feel these days about myself.
I look at old photos that I thought weren’t quite as pristine as I may have wanted. But they all look perfectly lovely now. Sometimes I wish I could time travel back and relive those moments.
Then again, I can’t always remember what came right before and right after the photo. Except that life went on—much of it lovely, much unlovely.
In the forest, life springs from death and decay. Everywhere. Without cosmetic surgery or attempts to create photo opps. Mushrooms and other life forms thrive on decay. So, in a way, do I, even though I don’t always understand how or why.
An aging (my age!) colleague, a historian, loves to remind me that we stand on the shoulders of hundreds of thousands who came before us. We inherit their successes and breakthroughs.
We also inherit the price they paid on behalf of the next generations. The price of telling and living the truth as they saw it, despite often being judged ‘wrong’ or ‘misguided.’
It takes courage to live and courage to die. It also takes courage to feed on what is rich with nutrients and live-sustaining wisdom. These days my mind and spirit feed on the lives and wisdom of older women and men long since dead.
They aren’t wise because they were old and are now dead. Soren Kierkegaard reminds me that wisdom doesn’t necessarily grow with age. It can, in fact, deteriorate with age and grow with youth.
That said, I’m grateful for those whose wisdom was laid down with their deaths—via writings and other records of their courageous moves that now may seem elementary.
When I die, I want to be an old, decaying log lying in a forest somewhere, becoming something I couldn’t have been in this life. Fertilizer and food for tiny mushrooms and ferns. I’d even welcome the birds who discover juicy insects thriving in what used to be me.
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 23 October 2015
Photo credit: DAFraser, October 2015
The decaying tree and the insects and mushrooms that grow on it. In the midst of death, there is life. That’s almost theologically sound, isn’t it!
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Thanks, John! I think it might be….We’re just back from a week-long visit with our daughter and son-in-law in Oregon. Walking in this forest with our ‘children’ is one of my favorite things to do (they’re great hikers). It stretches for miles and miles.
Elouise
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This post is so touching, feelings I can relate to having spent alot of time lately in the forest, each time entering finding new trees and branches having fallen and the old rusted hulking machinery left from 40 or so years ago half buried. Life and death touches all. Peace and blessings, K
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Thanks for this comment and beautiful description. I love the ‘old rusted hulking machinery’ image. It reminds me of driving through parts of rural Pennsylvania and seeing ghost-gray houses of former houses/farms, with rusting machinery lying around covered with ivy and who-knows-what. It always makes me wonder who lived there, and what their lives were like. So many untold stories.
Elouise
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Always, old school Americana is a great thing. A few weeks ago we went leaf gawking and came upon a pasture of cows. On the hill was an old family gated cemetery and it was in quite a neglected state, although the cows were standing on the stones trimming the grass, it was quite an unusual sight. My father opened he window to take pics and mooed at them they all turned around and stared at us as if we were the spectacle. The things you see never cease to leave me wondering. Thanks Elouise, peace and blessings, K
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You’re welcome. What a wonderful story! Your father sounds as interesting as all the rest! I do enjoy (right word?) seeing old family cemeteries–though most I’ve seen were all out West in dry land, unfenced, ungated and untended. Still. The remains were presumably there along with the markers–sometimes weather-worn pieces of wood. Maybe the cows had a point–we’re the spectacle. The two-legged animals who stop by every now and then to stare and wonder, and then move on?
Elouise
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Elouise, I enjoyed this very much. When my kids were little, one of their favourite books was called Log Hotel. It told the story of all the plant, animal and insect life that found sustenance in a decaying log. Funny, the kids ‘got’ sustenance in a way I often didn’t. Anyway, I’m a big fan of Autumn now that I’m older. I take it as permission to be dormant for a while; conserve energy for the next flowering! Thanks for stopping by my blog today. Let’s keep an eye on each other!
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You’re welcome! I enjoyed your piece and your photos so very much. Thanks for your kiddy memories, too!
Elouise
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What a great post full of thoughtful observations and wise insights into this thing we call life. Thanks for sharing!
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You’re welcome, Jessica. Thanks for reading and commenting. I’m glad you stopped by, and hope you’ll come again!
Elouise
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