Thursday, April 12, 2012

Hearing Things

or Non-Verbal Communication

The sounds have come back.  Winter's quietness is lovely in its way (I suppose) but isolating, a mild, narrow-bandwidth version of the way I imagine deafness to be.  Maybe if you grow up without hearing you learn more thoroughly the forms of communication that don't depend on voice, and you master techniques that allow you to conquer isolation.  But to grow deaf later in life, to lose one's hearing—suddenly not to notice a loved one's step crossing the threshold, or to hear voices calling from across the room—would be a loss of connection hard to bear.  In a low-level, curable, seasonal way, that's what winter's quiet is to me.

Now, well into spring, it's as if that lost bandwidth has been restored.  The neighbor's aspen trees have begun pattering in the wind again (such a different sound than their dry, mid-summer clatter) while the sand cherries' new leaves rush like whitewater.  Say's phoebes whistle and blow raspberries from the roof; bees and wasps play the wash-tub bass amid the desert olives; yesterday I heard the first sonic boom after a hummingbird zipped past.  The ice cream truck has been playing "Red Wing," just like the ice cream truck of my childhood.

Forestiera neomexicana

With the wind whispering through the transparent young leaves and the bees diving in and out among the flowers, the largest of the three desert olives (Forestiera neomexicana), the male tree, has been extra-good company this week.  In the late afternoon warmth in the walled garden, the blossoms' fragrance—like mango with a hint of pineapple—has lured everything that buzzes and drones into its radius.  The tree has been talking, too.  Not in so many words (or in words at all) and not particularly to me, but I think that it has preferences to convey, opinions about strength and weakness and growth.

I've been thinking about that tree anyway.  It worries me a little:  like other things I planted in the garden's first year (the biggest sand cherry, the five foot tall agastache, the waist-high arugula), it grew too big too fast; I almost wonder whether the contractors "salted" the ground with fertilizer or something, as nothing has grown at that rate since.  The tree's fast initial growth seems to have weakened it.  By late spring every year even the main trunks start bending under the weight of new leaves.  Staking helps some, but pruning after the first flush of growth is over, just before summer heat sets in and the tree goes sleepy again, seems to work best.


So I've been studying the tree hard, marking water sprouts and weak Y's with string so that I can find them even once the leaves are fully grown, and trying to figure out where to balance the growth.  I've been trying to listen, too, to what the tree is saying through the blossoms.  Only certain branches on certain of the multiple trunks have flowers, you see.  The rest have plenty of leaves, but no blooms.  The flowering branches seem like the tree's language of approval, its vote of confidence in the strength of those trunks and branches and stems.  These are the ones entrusted to carry on their half of the species so that the female trees can set fruit.  The honeybees and bumblebees and carpenter bees and hoverflies and wasps in their relentless circling and settling have given the tree's approval a sonic form.  Their buzzing isn't just noise but a message, an endorsement, and a loud one at that.  At any rate, I'm letting those flowers guide me in which branches to keep, and which to prune away.

I just wish I could be sure that we are really speaking the same language.

22 comments:

  1. Nice post.
    The opening reminds me of what Helen Keller said, that if she could choose either sight or hearing, she would choosing hearing, because sight separates one from things but hearing separates one from people.
    Although I enjoy the quietness of winter. Of course, it's relative; while "quiet" compared to the rest of the year, it's more noisy than much of the rest of the country, being in a location where we receive some migratory species.
    Best wishes for your tree!

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    1. Thanks, Mama Hen. I'd have to agree with Helen Keller. It's too easy for the hard of hearing to end up on the sidelines of every conversation. Being the winter home for migratory species is such a pleasant thing--just to have some life arrive in winter makes the season a whole other animal. We do have some migrants here, too, especially sandhill cranes and snow geese, but my house is urban enough that once they fly over on their way to the wetlands I don't encounter them any more.

      This is a little tangential, but you might enjoy it--Keller's description of a trip to the top of the Empire State Building:
      http://www.lettersofnote.com/2012/03/empire-state-building.html

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  2. I've read that you're supposed to prune in the shape of a vase, but always end up with bushes in the shape of lollipops. It never occurred to me to look for what the plant was telling me. I like the way you interpreted the flowering branches as the ones that were trusted. (I would have concluded that the flowering branches were stressed, making a desperate bid to reproduce before it's too late.)

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    1. b-a-g, I did wonder whether to draw the opposite conclusion from the flowers but then decided that since spring-flowering trees are supposed to flower in spring, the flowers are probably a good sign. Time will tell...

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  3. Signal and noise, sound and hearing - you and I are on the same wavelength, and I do believe you are hearing what your tree is saying.

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    1. Oh, I hope so, Diana. I hadn't realized before just how different a multi-trunked tree, or a "large shrub/small tree" can be from a regular, standard-issue, unequivocal tree. I love the desert olives, but wish I knew for sure how to bring out their best.

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  4. I do wish I could hear (and understand) what trees and shrubs were saying. I approach pruning with a sense of trepidation. Sure, it's easy when a branch is blocking a path or is damaged, but otherwise it's a scratch of the chin, a quick snip and a hurried step backwards to see the effect. A slow walk forward and another snip. And so, slowly, it goes on. If only they just could just tell me....
    Humming-birds don't really make sonic booms, do they? I should be for ever jumping out of my skin and spilling hot tea in my lap. Dave

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    1. The whole botanical kingdom, Dave, could use some work on its communication skills. Yellow leaves, for example, should mean one thing and one thing only. And pruning...yes, I know what you mean. It's hard to envision what the shape will be without certain branches until the branches are gone, and by then, it's a little late to change it back. I wish I were more skilled with a saw, too--I'm always worried about damaging the poor trees.

      Sonic boom was a little poetic license, believe it or not. I do still find myself jumping and spilling hot tea sometimes, though--when hummingbirds are having a territory squabble they'll zip right past you at 60 mph within inches of your head. They're precision flyers and not afraid to cut things close, but that doesn't make them any less startling.

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  5. You seem to have tapped into the whispering of the woods....we have to be still and patient to hear their message if we are so lucky...lovely post...I wanted to tell you that my Ipheion uniflorums are already blooming...I was stunned to see them in the hot front garden especially with over 2 weeks of frosts and freezes...

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    1. Donna, I'm so glad your Ipheion survived the see-saw weather and are blooming for you! Somehow they manage both to be beautiful on their own and also perfect complements to other spring flowers. It's sweet of you to think to tell me.

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  6. I love the sounds of spring, too. The buzzing of the bees, the chirping of the birds, the rustling of the wind through the leaves of the trees. I hope you can hear what your tree wants you to know. I often wonder if plants curse us under their breaths as we walk away, finished from our pruning.

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    1. Holley, oh, dear--now there's something to think about. I wonder if they do have Words to say when they us coming with loppers and saws, let alone when we're piling up all the limbs we've removed to be disposed of. If only they'd shout out, "Not that one, silly!" life would be much easier for us all.

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  7. Stacy, I love the sonic boom with the hummer. They do seem to fly faster than sound sometimes. I am so looking forward to the return of my seasonal residents. It is amazing to sit and listen to all the familiar returning song, buzzing and humming. Sitting under my weeping cherry today sounded like being next to a bee hive. All the calls and chattering of tree swallows (returned a few days ago), bluebirds, phoebe ( returned very early March 14th) etc. along with the woodcock . . . they all are excited for spring and romance. We do not have leaves open enough for the breeze to chime in yet. Sounds like your tree may need some heavy pruning. It is good to listen and your strings mean you are seeing too. I must confess to seeing more when deciding how to prune but I think I will follow your way of listening too. I will let you know if my trees and shrubs communicate in any language i can understand. Waist high arugula!!! REally!?

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    1. Oh, how lovely, Carol, to sit under a weeping cherry in springtime. The rural birdlife you enjoy is more varied than our urban finches and sparrows and mourning doves. I was so pleased to hear the phoebes--they nest on the flat roofs our houses have, but I saw a cat up on the neighbor's roof the other day and am afraid the phoebes will go elsewhere. Please do let me know if your trees and shrubs tell you anything clearly. I hope the pruning I do doesn't stimulate too much new growth, as that's what I'm trying to avoid. The waist-high arugula was almost a shrub all by itself, with no poetic exaggeration at all! I ended up losing a few plants growing in its shade and should really have pulled it up, except that I was so curious to see how big it could get.

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  8. I've been sitting with the door open in the afternoons here. Listening. A lost art it seems. I can't hear as detailed as you, but love the sounds of spring. The birds, the bugs, the leaves.....

    I so enjoy your posts!

    Blessings,
    Elaine

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    1. Elaine, those first days when the door can be open are always wonderful. I hope you're still enjoying all those sounds of springtime, along with some peaceful afternoons.

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  9. Your writing is always so eloquent Stacy - thank you. Beautiful, descriptive post as always and a poignant reminder for us to sit still long enough to 'hear'.

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    1. Thank you so much, Karen. If there's one thing I've learned to see as a "gift" of CFS, it's the need to stop being busy and just be still sometimes.

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  10. Stacy, I just love how you listen and observe with such intention! You are paying attention in the most active sense of the words, and I'm sure you will find answers because of it - sounds like you already are. What a thoughtful, lovely post and a great reminder to all of us to not only hear, but to listen.

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    1. Aimee, what a lovely thing to say--thank you. My parents were just here for a visit that reminded me how lucky I am to have learned from experts what listening is all about.

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  11. Lovely post. I was just noticing how the kousa dogwood I planted 3-4 years ago has blooms on only 3-4 branches. I like your interpretation of those branches as the ones the tree trusts. I am thinking about pruning the Japanese maple at the courtyard at work for entirely selfish reasons, because a few twigs are blocking my view of the new garden beyond. Gardening involves such a balancing of our desires with our interpretation of the needs of plants and wildlife...

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    1. Sheila, gardening really is a balancing act--I'm more aware of that the bigger the trees grow, as I realize how much shaping they'll need to stay manageable in a small garden. Fortunately, trees don't seem to mind pruning, at least, not a few twigs here and there to reveal a view in a courtyard...

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