A DISTANCE BRIDGED THROUGH ARBOREAL WANDERINGS

If trees are spiritual entities, perhaps they would be able to give me some sage advice.

Trees and lovers. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, an aged couple known for their hospitality grow into an intertwining pair of oak and linden at their death. In the traditional Japanese Noh play “Takasago,” twin pines symbolize happiness, peace, and the longevity of love. Combined with so many others, these tales have given me somewhat quixotic standards when it comes to romance. 

As for love, I don’t think I’ve ever truly felt that before, but the one time I came close, I was irrevocably hurt. Hayden (a pseudonym) and I were a thing. That was maybe all there was to it. He likes trees as much as I do, or, at least, he used to. 

Lying in bed, languid and reluctant to face the world, I stare out the second-floor window framing autumn, a seasonal snapshot of red-gold leaves dancing aflame in the afternoon sun. It’s good weather rarely found in Providence. Abstract thoughts of romance and love, wistfulness and regret flit dimly past my mind. 

At twenty-one, I barely have anything figured out, never mind a steady relationship. Mustering up the will to reach for my phone, I stretch just far enough towards the window to take a photo of the autumn maple. I wonder if trees have minds of their own, souls, thoughts, and sensibility. Perhaps with a three-century lifespan, they could advise me on whether to get back out there. It has been more than a year of post-break-up moping.

If trees have souls, what would they say to my fleeting, playful gaze with an undercurrent of desire? This anthropomorphic question struck me when I was ten and again at twenty-one. Standing before a giant sequoia at Yosemite, the ten-year-old me gaped in awe at the majestic red-brown column stretching infinitely into the heavens. She tilted her head upwards and strained her neck until it was sore. The placard by its side depicted ten men forming an embrace that barely enwrapped the awesome giant. 

The most wizened of these coniferous beings have lived for three thousand years. By the time the placard itself rots and crumbles into dusty fragments, the trees would still be standing. They would remain resolute and unalterable, silent sentinels standing watch over woodland dwellers who would eventually fell them one by one. 

If trees have souls, no, if they possess thoughts and self-perceptions, what would they say to the moments of excitement and eventual pain I have experienced? These instances would be fractions of seconds in a lifespan of thirty centuries. They wouldn’t matter, would they? 

These glances that morph and grow into a desire sated only by touch, the push and pull of a cat-and-mouse game, they would be minutiae easily forgotten. If trees are spiritual entities, perhaps they would be able to give me some sage advice. I doubt they would recommend safekeeping these memories of a failed romance.

One could argue that maybe these aren’t the questions to be asked. Never mind the thousand-year-old trees, for whom mere hours, days, months don’t matter. Do I find these moments worth relishing? 

In truth, vagaries of romance with Hayden bring me little pleasure when I think back to them. There used to be a gnawing pain that seeped into wistful dreams of us together again, taking walks, holding hands, in bed. There also used to be anger every time I scrolled past his social media posts. It is too easy to fall prey when you presumed you could be the predator. 

I didn’t know Hayden’s intentions, though he wasn't sure of mine either. It wasn’t until months into our thing, on a dull wintry evening, that he said he was missing someone studying abroad. Was he waiting for her to come back? Was he hoping for something else eventually? What was I to him? I smiled weakly at the confession. I didn't know what to say or what to do. “We’re just friends now,” he added, a vain addendum to repressed longing. 

It’s just a matter of perspective. In the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, Bruehlman-Senecal and Ayduk’s study on temporal distancing challenges the age-old saying “this too shall pass.” The study highlights humans’ distinctive capacity for mental time travel. We can transcend the present by envisioning the past and imagining the future. Their findings demonstrate that, through temporal distancing, people become more aware that their current reactions to distressing events are only temporary. 

It’s a method of stress relief. Imagine how you, ten years older, would think back to a dreary separation at nineteen when you barely knew what love was. Sometimes, I do feel a soothing relief just letting my thoughts reach forward in time, stretching into an unknowable future. 

Perhaps I would be more mature about things, have other priorities, and tell apart love and infatuation. I can’t help but think that these trees surrounding me, inconspicuously lining the sidewalks, may serve as a reminder that it’s all going to be okay. In the grand scheme of things, these hurtful moments — bringing tearful, restive nights, dreary indoor days, and an oppressive, soul-draining melancholy — are only temporary. 

Temporal distancing is challenging. For the longest time, I hated Hayden because he preferred someone else. I hated that we had grown apart, that we were no longer talking, texting, laughing — together. I wanted so badly to change, to make myself better, likable, wantable. It is darkly ironic how want could go so awry, how two wants can fall so far apart. When the flame of desire dissipates, I wonder if I could disappear with it, or better yet, turn into the trees that catch his gaze when we took a walk at sunset. That evening, his eyes avoided my face and rested mostly on the barren limbs of a once flaming maple. I wanted desperately to climb into her skin, that someone he couldn’t let go of. But I couldn’t. 

Under a nebulous sunset overlooking the eerily empty metropolis, I stare into the distance, willing myself to think not of the entangled circumstances of the now but of a future worth enjoying. I imagine a woodland scene removed from urban crowds and dilapidated apartments, of thriving pines and a bubbling stream, a cheery escapist vision unclouded by a troubled present.

What would an older me say about the vain flirtations, the calloused flings, the real emotions spilled out and unrequited, the rivulets of tears against a soaked pillow? Maybe, I would have grown a bit wiser. Maybe, I can grow to emulate the stolid wisdom of the red cedars outside my family home, companions who have witnessed my childhood and adolescence. Hopefully, they can witness something more, a trajectory of my maturation that is only slowly taking place. 

AUTHOR: Irene Chou is a junior at Brown who studies English and Political Science. You can find her snacking at weird hours of the night and dozing off at the library.
ARTIST: Sijia Wang