Let me tell you something about trees. They speak to each other. Just think what they must say? What could a tree say to another tree? I bet they could talk forever. The things they must see, that must happen around them, the things they must hear. They speak to each other through tunnels that extend from their roots, opened in the earth by fungus, sending their messages cell by cell, with a patience that could only be possessed by a living thing that cannot move. It would be like me telling you a story by saying one word each day.
from a low and quiet sea by Donal Ryan (2018)
My photosynthetic friend, the Moreton Bay Fig
Humans are absurd. Frequently, I need a break from my own kind, lest I descend into an unacceptable level of absurdity. You know the kind. Underwear on head, sock puppets at work, or the kind of inflated self importance that leads to podcasting without a journalism background.
A few times a week I run to the river where I talk to my photosynthetic friend, the Moreton Bay Fig (pictured above). She allows me to sit between her buttress roots, which radiate out towards Cooks River, and in the other direction towards the reserve where she shares her resources with conifers, other fig trees and paperbarks. Neither of us waste time making sound. Instead we enjoy a shared silence that only veteran friendships understand.
It is only through The Silence that the words emerge, where characters coalesce and narrative becomes form. Like others afflicted with biophilia, I draw this silence from nature. Writing is not for the impatient, which is difficult when you live in a world where worth is assigned to productivity. It can take years to write a good book, which is why it irks me when I hear people criticise George R.R. Martin for his delay in writing the last novel in The Game of Thrones series.
To be patient with the process means to have faith in the future. It means that you must have faith in yourself, which is often a herculean feat (and a topic for another blog post). It means that people may shun you as you experiment with plot, as you follow characters who meander past you and travel to the underworld. It means that non writers don’t understand that it can take years to produce something solid, that it takes time for a story to grow and its roots to be sturdy. And it means a level of private despair, because you know that it is a process that cannot be rushed in a world where productivity is worshipped.
But my photosynthetic friend reminds of the rhythms of nature. She also reminds me that not only are humans absurd, we are the only species that willfully persists in destroying itself. Over production of the cells in the body is known as cancer. Over production in aid of over-consumption is clogging our oceans with plastic and overseas landfills that leach toxins from electronic waste into the ground water.
To worship at the altar of productivity for its own sake is not just destructive to our own species. We are at the brink of bringing entire eco-systems down with us.
So join me in raising a glass of chlorophyll (I know essentially it’s plant blood so the metaphor is a tad macabre). But raise your glasses nonetheless, dear writers. Here’s to the rhythms of nature and to the process of silence. Here’s to balance, contemplation and a different way of living.
If you feel the nature vibes check out the following links:
- My Gallery of Not Words including crimes against chlorophyll
- Creative non-fiction page for a download of The Human Mammal
- An excellent article on trees- Do Trees Talk to Each Other? | Science | Smithsonian Magazine
- Also check out Donal Ryan’s excellent novel, “From a Low and Quiet Sea.”
Word upon Word 