I Once Was Many Trees

"The wood of which the design is constructed decays and is replaced when necessary. To be overly concerned with the original materials, which are merely sentimental souvenirs of the past, is to fail to see the living building itself.” – Douglas Adams

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Who are we? Why are we here? Where did we come from? Some of the greatest minds on our planet have pondered these questions, and I suppose I should, too. They say you get more accepting of things just as they are in old age, but if anything, I have become more restless. My tired bones have all but been replaced, renewed with the vigour of new timber. Perhaps this eager questioning is theirs. After all, their youthful sapwood is a more recent memory.

What’s that look on your face I sense? Skepticism? Disbelief, perhaps? Well, I must warn you that suspension of disbelief is absolutely essential if you believe that someone like me can’t have these thoughts.

Yes, I am made of wood. No, I do not have a “brain” as you would put it, but I most certainly have a heart. Heartwood, in fact. But I wasn’t always like this.

A barn I may be now, but I once was many trees.

I remember when I took my first breath. The confinement of the seed swaddled in the soil and the womb of the Earth. I imagine my experience to be not unlike yours in the embryo. There was comfort. Knowledge. Trust in the process. The full potential of my growth in the tiny pocket of protons and neutrons, nestled in the seed coat.

Of course, I never could have imagined then what my future held. But I guess that’s part of the magic.

It’s hard to believe how much time has passed, really. I can’t tell by the rings anymore, but make no mistake, it has been a long time since that first sand and fresh coat of linseed oil. I can still feel the heated grains and the faint smell of flax camouflaged by overtones of acridity. Many say it’s an acquired taste.

It didn’t last long, anyway…

I don’t even recognize myself anymore. From a distance, I look the same. Four walls, gambrel roof, and swirled timber tinged a burnt orange. No more ferrous for colour, though. All synthetic these days.

At first the change was gradual. A couple of coats of paint, a new hinge, fresh bales of hay. But over time, I have succumbed to the elements.

Fungus, rot, you name it - I’ve had it. I like to think it added character.

I grew to enjoy the occasional scent of mould and slight discoloration of my innermost layers. I’ve been told the wormholes are actually prized in some pieces, yielding distinctive patterns to my grains, but not for me.

I don’t forget the stories in those old knots, but my planks have all but been replaced now.

I barely recognize myself anymore. Not unlike how you humans wake up one day to the sudden realization that you seem to have aged 30 years overnight. You see yourself in the mirror every day and become so accustomed to seeing your reflection that you barely notice the evolution.

It’s sort of the same for me, except instead of showing signs of visible age, it is almost the opposite. Over the years, I have become ‘younger’, as it were. Mostly, anyway.

My purlin’s the same. Surprising that these old beams have held up this long. I’ve been through storms that have shaken me to my foundations, and there were moments where I didn’t think I could hold myself up. But I never did lose my integrity.

This old back has quite literally stood the test of time, carrying the weight of the walls and the stories within. I’m grateful, that’s for sure. There's a piece of original construction to remind me of all that I’ve been through. Sometimes we all need a reminder, don’t you think?