The Wisdom of Old Oaks

I am old. Older than you can comprehend.

With my age comes a lot of wisdom. Not the wisdom that young people think that they have. They have the arrogance to assume that they know more than others. I have the wisdom to be serene in my knowledge and to understand that not everything needs acting or commenting on. As the young humans of today, with their fancy beards and denim trousers would say, 'chill out'. Just relax a bit. Things happen. You don't always have to make them happen.

Not all trees are like me.

There are young trees near me. They chatter constantly. Never pausing for breath. Their leaves are always rustling - telling each other about this or that.

Today the young trees in the big garden of the house where we all grow, are arguing about their adornments. One, a young ash - still supple and bendy, is boasting about the sign that’s nailed to his trunk.

"It's permanent - on my trunk! I'm so important to them that they nailed a sign to me!" His leaves rustle to the young birch tree next to him.

"You're not at all important. They're treating you like a signpost!"

They don't realise that it doesn't matter. Humans treat trees however they feel. When I was much younger they worshipped trees. Now they cut them down to build houses or roads. Or simply because we're in the way. Sometimes humans try to protect us, they build houses in our branches and lay down in front of bulldozers. Occasionally it works. Most of the time it doesn't.

I hear messages from other trees. Trees from far away. Through the leaves of the nearer trees and through the roots of the faraway trees. I hear tales from trees on faraway lands. Tales of trees being cut down, acres at a time. I hear of trees that don't get much beyond adulthood. They are grown, then felled and grown again. Over and over and over. The two young trees don't hear it though. They are too young to listen. Too full of chatter and nonsense.

In the drop off a leaf, it's winter. The young trees are still noisy. The young birch tree is happy. Noisy with excitement.

"They chose me! Look at the baubles and ribbons they tied on my branches!"

"They must tickle worse than a flock of blackbirds nesting!"

"I like the tickle! Makes me remember I'm important!"

On and on they go. My sign's better than yours. I'm more important than you. Neither of them notices the way the humans use the great old oak tree. Me. I've been here far longer than anyone can remember. I was in the wedding photos. I was the stability for tots learning to walk. I gave refuge in the rain and shelter for picnics in the sun. I provided cover for games of hide and seek. At the moment I have a girl sitting on my branches, crying. She feels like her life is over because the boy she loved doesn't love her. My rough bark soaks up her tears and my foliage gives her privacy in her low moment. She's not the first and she won't be the last. She thinks that her life is over. I know that it's not. Eventually, she’ll feel better.

With the budding of leaves comes spring. My branches feel lighter, free from the snow of winter. The young trees haven't changed. They are so full of their own self-importance that they don't notice the girl sitting on my branches - now recovered from her broken heart. I remember how her mum used to climb into my branches when she was small. Usually when someone was calling her. This girl didn't climb me until she was older. I have become her own private space.

I have been around for so long that I hear things and notice things. I notice the messages being passed through the roots. The messages have not been good. I hear the trees a few gardens away that are hurting. Then I hear silence. The young trees don't hear the pain and haven't noticed the silence. I'm glad.

I gently nudge the girl with my branch, encouraging her off. She cries harder as she climbs down.

'You're not so important- she's taking your baubles away!' the ash tree teases. With no retort, the birch tree sulks in silence.

'I'm going to miss you all!' the girl says, wiping her tearful eyes.

As I notice the orange machines waiting outside, I'm glad that the young trees are too self-involved to notice what's going on. They have no idea of the destruction that's about to happen. They don't know how much pain the other trees felt. I think it's better for them that way. Because I know that they will never become old trees.

This garden is going to become houses. Just like the areas nearby.