IMAGO

The imago of the insect emerges from the carcase of its former self.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

The Young Man and the Tall Oak Tree


There was once a simple young man who lived on a vast, dusty plain. Beside his cottage grew a mighty oak, the only one for miles around. In winter, it protected his home from the prairie storms. In summer, it gave shade from the fierce glare of the sun. The tree was everything the man had ever wanted. It met all his needs. It was large enough to provide him with firewood from its fallen branches; and it had many strong boughs, which the man occasionally cut to make furniture. It was good and strong, noble and tall. Everyone who passed by the cottage remarked upon the beauty of the old oak, which pleased the young man, for he loved it dearly. The oak tree was his whole life, his constant companion. He liked nothing better than to sit in its shade and read a book. He was very happy with his tree.

One day, the young man decided to make a chair for his library. So he took his saw and went out to the tree. As the metal bit into the thickness of a branch, the wood snapped off as if it were brittle, shooting painful splinters into the man’s face and eyes. He was surprised and hurt. Wiping away the tears, he looked at the wood and saw it was riddled with small holes. The man knew in his heart that the wood would never serve for furniture. But he dismissed these thoughts from his mind and returned to his books.

A few weeks later, he tried again (for life presses on). He went out to his beloved tree and began to cut another branch. Just as before, the wood shattered and sprayed him with its sharp splinters. But this time, (because he was prepared) he turned his head and the splinters (sharp as kitchen knives) showered him on the back of the neck, drawing blood. Again, he looked at the wood, and once more, he saw the same pithy, brittle mass of holes and cavities.

Gradually, the man learned from his books that his precious tree was unwell. It had become diseased - infested by an insect (the prairie oak flea) that was known to cripple oak trees, but not to kill them.

As the months passed and the disease progressed, the man was conscious he was getting less and less of what he needed from his tree. Its leaves became thin and scattered, and could not provide shade from the hot glare of the sun. Storms came. But instead of sheltering the house, the oak let loose its weakened branches to fall onto the cottage roof with a loud and angry thunder. Once, a heavy limb crashed right through into his bedroom in the midst of a storm, and the man had to spend a cold, miserable night waiting for the daylight in order to mend the hole.

But the man continued to love his tree. It was beautiful. “It is my oak, and I love it”, he said to himself. “I know it has a disease, but that’s not the fault of the tree. I chose to build my home in its shelter, and now I am committed to staying with it whatever the winds of Destiny may decide.”

And so it was. The man decided to live with less furniture in his house than before. He read his books sitting on an old fruit crate instead of a chair. In winter, he went about the house wearing many layers of clothes to keep himself warm. He learned to sleep lightly, always listening for any crack in the oak wood that might cause the next bough to break above his head. It was worth the sacrifice.

Until one day, a passing wagon stopped, and an old man with a face as wizened as an ancient oak tree asked him, “Why do you stay with that sick tree? It causes you so much pain, and there are so many things it can never give you?”
“I love my tree,” answered the man. “It’s the disease that I hate. The tree is beautiful and good. And it is my life.”
“But look,” said the old man in the wagon. “Its wood is rotten. Its shade is useless. Instead of sheltering you, it harms you in storms. You have no decent furniture because its wood is so pithy and brittle.”
“I have learned to separate the disease from the tree, replied the simple man. “If I didn’t do that, my heart would surely become embittered.”
“But if the disease is separate”, asked the man in the wagon, “then tell me, where is your tree without the disease? I don’t see a healthy tree standing next to a disease. All I see is a pithy, bug-eaten tree that can barely stand on its own. If your tree is such a good provider, then why do you have so little, and why is your roof patched and leaking? Why do you have no decent furniture in your house? Why are you always frightened that a branch might come crashing through your roof at any moment? Is that any way to live your life?”

The man thought for a while. He looked around at the cold and empty shack his home had become and at the miserable state of his own life. He sat down on a rotten log and began to weep. “You know” he said, “maybe you are right. No matter how much I say I love that tree, it can never give me the things I need from it. I guess you’re right. The tree and the disease are all the same thing. I don’t have a tree and a disease. I have a “diseased tree”. And the longer I stay under it, the longer I’m going to live without the shade, the shelter, and the furniture that I need. One day soon, I’m going to be conked on the head by a falling branch and that will be the end of me. Maybe I need to start looking for another tree to give me what I need...”

With tears in his eyes, the man began to pack a suitcase, and before long, he had set off to look for another place to build a home. In time, he found one, with a healthy maple tree growing nearby.

He hated the idea of building a home all over again from scratch, but he was a courageous man, and was firmly resolved to try. It was very hard. After a few brief months, however, he had built himself a brand new home, shaded in the summer, shielded from winds in winter, and safe from storms. The tree was not a noble oak of course, but it could provide him with all the wood he needed for his furniture. Bees even came to suck nectar from its blossoms. Very often, he would sit contentedly in the evenings under its extensive canopy and write letters to his friends (who also had problems with their trees). He wrote to them about his beloved oak, and about the deep peace he had found in the shade of his simple unassuming maple. The man was content.

As for the oak tree: it continued to grow in its same spot, dropping its branches during every storm, just as it had before. Just as it always would in the future.