June 25, 2000 ~ When Trees Scream

Today started out as the hottest day yet this summer. It was quite unbearable. Suddenly, though, around two, the heavens literally rent open with a loud roar and a wall of water poured forth. Thunder and lightening were right overhead. The crashes were deafening and the power kept going out. The trees twisted in the wind, and the courtyard flooded. It was quite impressive, and it dropped the temperature about twenty degrees.

It eventually calmed to a slow drizzle, and everything was left with a very clean smell.

The last few months, I have been thinking a lot about appreciating this new place. (New, ha! I've been here a year and a half). I still call the Northwest my home. I still think of it as the most beautiful place to live. But I am learning to see the beauty and wonderful features of this place, Western North Carolina, in the Appalachian Mountains.

For instance, I love fireflies (they call them lightening bugs down here). I had never seen one until I came to the south. It is so magical to go out on Dogwood Pasture, which overlooks the mountains, and watch as the sun sets and the little fireflies start sprinkling the field with their little fairy-like lights. It is so beautiful and magical. I could watch them for hours.

I also love the thunderstorms here. They are often so sudden, violent, and powerful. We don't have strike lightening much in Oregon, at least, not in Portland. Here though, we have several strikes, just on campus, during every storm. It is very impressive. I love the power, and how it really puts me in my place and gives me awe.

A few weeks back, I wrote a journal entry (the 11th, I think?). I want to include it, because it was a powerful experience for me.

I walked slowly up the hill on my way to work, hesitant to reach the office that I knew would be bustling by now. The chill of night had not quite worn off, and dew was on the grass, but slanting early-morning sunlight warmed me. The moon was still out. I breathed deeply and slowly.

I stopped abruptly with shock at the sight that lay before me. Something in my chest and throat tightened. "No," I whispered. The flaming maple, the only one I had seen on campus, was bent over at the middle, snapped in two like a matchstick. I walked toward it in shock. It looked as if someone had tried to climb the too-young tree, so it had been unable to support the weight and fell over.

Scientists have found that plants react to pain in exactly the same ways that humans and animals do. You just can't see it, for they do it much slower. Plants do not have as much freedom of movement as animals do, but they do have some. Plants move away from pain as quickly as possible, in the same patterns we do. They also scream. Scientists have measured these screams, which happen at a supersonic level. When a plant is injured, it lets out a supersonic noise. Where plants differ, however, is how surrounding plants act. When a person screams in pain, other people usually grow quiet. When you pick a wildflower in a field, however, it is scientifically proven that all of the plants surrounding it will start screaming too. Picking one wildflower will cause an entire field to scream.

I laid my hand lightly on the bark, tears welling up in my eyes. About eight feet from the ground was the jagged, toothy wound. You are screaming now, aren't you, tree? I thought.

In the fall, flaming maples earn their name. It starts at the uppermost leaves. Yellow begins to seep down the green. Then orange starts to seep down the yellow, and red joins the mix. The burst of yellow, red, and orange travels down from the uppermost leaves to the lower, and then they begin to fall. Flaming maples look as if they are on fire.

Leaves, just starting to wilt, still provided a cover from the morning sun; the light was a golden green color. "You are beautiful yet tragic in your death," I said. This tree would not see another fall.

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