Bark, Not Barking

Taking a walk in one's neighborhood has its advantages. One of them is seeing what one routinely passes without any consideration. For example, the gently rising hillside street where I live has trees in nearly every yard. They represent a variety of species, and I realized during a recent stroll that I don't know anything about any of them.

That notion compelled me to think about familiar things differently. I began by taking a closer look at one tree's bark. Its rough, choppy surface hid a smoother interior life. I suppose a trained eye would have been able to estimate the organism's likely age. To my primitive eye, the tree could have been there since the Pleistocene Era, sending out buds in the spring and dropping leaves every autumn. That was the extent of my observation.

Once upon a time, my lack of curiosity or even recognition of trees made it easy for me to believe that most climatically similar areas would have similar trees. Of course, that's ridiculous, but not all thoughts are carefully reasoned ones. When I

lived in Italy, I didn't think much about the trees, except the pines that I completely identify with Rome. I can't recall a tree of any sort in Italy that displayed brilliant foliage in the fall months. The leaves undramatically fell to the earth, and that was that. The lack of autumnal pizzaz did, however, dimly suggest to me that Italy's trees were different than those in the northeastern United States.

I don't want to suggest I experienced an environmentally driven, epiphanic moment. However, I did become a bit more grateful for what is right quietly in our midst, such as bark, that does not require attention getting devices, such as barking. All of us are free to explore these everyday elements, and perhaps by doing so gain some insight into our mysterious world. The Aboriginal tree carving to the right suggests there are antecedents for this type of speculation.