I remember waiting in the yard as the sun set blood red and amorphous amidst the haze of the coming night. I sat on the ground, legs crossed, tiny fingers tugging at the grass roots beneath me. The neighbors were up and I could see their television taunting them with bright lights and laughter. Beside me lay a telescope, short and sleek and silver. Its case of plastic, cellophane, and foam was somewhere on the deck, wrapping paper strewn beside it. I patiently awaited the tender hour when the moon and stars and other cosmic wonders would take dominion of the sky.
I sat in the grass for a while. The house next door was dark and silent now. The sun had set and the moon had risen in its place. I climbed over to a cherry tree and hoisted myself up by its branches. I would have preferred to observe things from the roof, but my parents insisted that it was no place for a boy of ten years. So I climbed to the heart of the drooping, stupid twisting tree and perched myself on the crux of a sturdy, forking branch. I extended the telescope and pressed my eye against it. My hands shook with youthful apprehension and at first I could see nothing. I steadied them, and looked through the glass once more. A pause. I tried to smile, but I was disappointed. It wasn’t that the telescope had let me down. I could see the moon’s craters and stars shining. I could see the vast reality and swirling somethings far above, but they meant nothing. I guess I had expected some sort of revelation in the new night sky, but I found nothing in particular. For an hour I kept the telescope pointed skyward, yet nothing stirred inside me. I looked up at the disenchanted black above and with a sigh let the telescope fall to the ground. It landed with a thud. I felt all alone against the dark blue electric of the night.
I turned over and began to let myself down from the tree when something caught my eye. A bumblebee, small and round and still, sat nestled in a cherry blossom hanging in front of me. I wondered why it wasn’t sleeping in its humming hive somewhere in the wild wood, but I leaned closer nonetheless. It rubbed its hairy legs against the flower’s shooting pistol, then lazily took off and landed on another flower. I followed it and noticed there were many bees in the tree, all taking part in the same, strange, nocturnal dance. Fly. Land. Shake. Turn. Fly. Land. Shake. Turn.
I listened closely and could hear, in the silence of the night, a soft buzzing; a ritualistic droning like some ancient, arcane song, wrapped in sweet somniloquence. I looked around and the tree itself seemed foreign, and all at once I was very nervous and excited. I reached out and traced the ancient patterns in the dead bark with shaking fingers. The tree was at once dead and alive; old and gray and lifeless and strong and pink and growing. I looked up and up at the branches climbing: climbing high into the sky. A tree of life and death and all their becomings. A thousand branches reaching for a thousand dying worlds above. I wanted to tell the tree to forget the planets and the moon and all the dusty destinies hiding in the stars. I wanted to tell the tree that it was strange and beautiful and that the stars held nothing for it. I listened to the bumblebees and rested in the tree until I tired, then hopped down and went to bed.
There was a time after this when I visited the tree every night. I was held in a curious rapture by its surface and its bees and the mystery of it all. It saddens me to think that someday the tree will die. It saddens me to think that someday it will all be sold. Yet in a way, that’s what makes it so amazing. The living-dying tree is beautiful because it’s doomed; because it will never be more beautiful than it was on that first night.
Five years later, the tree is still there but I am gone. I’ve looked upon it, just in passing now and then, but I live in another house with other trees and other bees. The trees are tough to climb and the bees here sleep at night. Maybe it’s just that I no longer try to climb the trees and I tend to sleep or think at night. I even found that I’m allergic to the sting of bees.
I thought, at first, that maybe it was foolish to write an essay about a tree and an insect, and maybe it still is. But if I can let you know the miracle of that ancient tree, the wonder of the bees, then it’s not foolish at all. As the vast dark pulses all around us unforgiving, there is still the cherry tree. Even now, late at night when all is quiet, at times when dreams offer no sanctuary, I turn to my open window and look out at the black above. I still have the silver looking glass and per chance I bend it skyward I cannot help but recall the beautiful song of the bees, and the untold secrets of the stupid twisting tree in its virgin majesty.
I sat in the grass for a while. The house next door was dark and silent now. The sun had set and the moon had risen in its place. I climbed over to a cherry tree and hoisted myself up by its branches. I would have preferred to observe things from the roof, but my parents insisted that it was no place for a boy of ten years. So I climbed to the heart of the drooping, stupid twisting tree and perched myself on the crux of a sturdy, forking branch. I extended the telescope and pressed my eye against it. My hands shook with youthful apprehension and at first I could see nothing. I steadied them, and looked through the glass once more. A pause. I tried to smile, but I was disappointed. It wasn’t that the telescope had let me down. I could see the moon’s craters and stars shining. I could see the vast reality and swirling somethings far above, but they meant nothing. I guess I had expected some sort of revelation in the new night sky, but I found nothing in particular. For an hour I kept the telescope pointed skyward, yet nothing stirred inside me. I looked up at the disenchanted black above and with a sigh let the telescope fall to the ground. It landed with a thud. I felt all alone against the dark blue electric of the night.
I turned over and began to let myself down from the tree when something caught my eye. A bumblebee, small and round and still, sat nestled in a cherry blossom hanging in front of me. I wondered why it wasn’t sleeping in its humming hive somewhere in the wild wood, but I leaned closer nonetheless. It rubbed its hairy legs against the flower’s shooting pistol, then lazily took off and landed on another flower. I followed it and noticed there were many bees in the tree, all taking part in the same, strange, nocturnal dance. Fly. Land. Shake. Turn. Fly. Land. Shake. Turn.
I listened closely and could hear, in the silence of the night, a soft buzzing; a ritualistic droning like some ancient, arcane song, wrapped in sweet somniloquence. I looked around and the tree itself seemed foreign, and all at once I was very nervous and excited. I reached out and traced the ancient patterns in the dead bark with shaking fingers. The tree was at once dead and alive; old and gray and lifeless and strong and pink and growing. I looked up and up at the branches climbing: climbing high into the sky. A tree of life and death and all their becomings. A thousand branches reaching for a thousand dying worlds above. I wanted to tell the tree to forget the planets and the moon and all the dusty destinies hiding in the stars. I wanted to tell the tree that it was strange and beautiful and that the stars held nothing for it. I listened to the bumblebees and rested in the tree until I tired, then hopped down and went to bed.
There was a time after this when I visited the tree every night. I was held in a curious rapture by its surface and its bees and the mystery of it all. It saddens me to think that someday the tree will die. It saddens me to think that someday it will all be sold. Yet in a way, that’s what makes it so amazing. The living-dying tree is beautiful because it’s doomed; because it will never be more beautiful than it was on that first night.
Five years later, the tree is still there but I am gone. I’ve looked upon it, just in passing now and then, but I live in another house with other trees and other bees. The trees are tough to climb and the bees here sleep at night. Maybe it’s just that I no longer try to climb the trees and I tend to sleep or think at night. I even found that I’m allergic to the sting of bees.
I thought, at first, that maybe it was foolish to write an essay about a tree and an insect, and maybe it still is. But if I can let you know the miracle of that ancient tree, the wonder of the bees, then it’s not foolish at all. As the vast dark pulses all around us unforgiving, there is still the cherry tree. Even now, late at night when all is quiet, at times when dreams offer no sanctuary, I turn to my open window and look out at the black above. I still have the silver looking glass and per chance I bend it skyward I cannot help but recall the beautiful song of the bees, and the untold secrets of the stupid twisting tree in its virgin majesty.
CrystalAngelDol
Join the Discussion
This article has 1 comment. Post your own!