The Form Of A Tree

To marvel at a tree is to marvel at a life giving form

Photo by niko photos on Unsplash

My wandering gaze, which flits around like a murmuration of starlings, more often than not comes to roost upon a tree. The Romantic in me delights to linger upon the beauty and form of these “bulwarks of nature” whose towering stature commands my attention. I take the necessary time to study the curves and angles of their branches; admire how their leaves, and (in season) flowers, adorn them with colour; and brush my hands across the complex textures of their gnarled and creviced bark. Time stands still as I delight in these ancient creatures, a feast for the senses that satiates my perception. And slowly my machine-stimulated attention begins heal.

One tree in particular captures my attention: a Turner Oak. Indeed, I am looking at it now as I glance outside my study window. This towering giant (for it truly is massive) lives undisturbed in the corner of an old cemetery filled with the bones of the faithful. Unencumbered by the ecological pressures of intra- and interspecific competition, this specimen has been permitted to extend and expand to its full and glorious potential over hundreds of years. Huge, thick branches radiate in all directions of the compass holding up a myriad of twigs laden with thousands upon thousands of dark evergreen leaves which adorn its perennial crown. Consecutive generations have found rest and refuge under its plentiful shade. It is a monument of patience; the sum of hundreds of seasons of steady growth, eventually resulting in a magnificent maturity that can weather any storm. Beauty is dense in this small corner of the city and as I pause in admiration, I take time to thank both its now long-forgotten planter and its eternal Maker — who sustains it still.  

Above all else, it is the form of this tree which magnetises my gaze. It is magnificent in size and proportion and perfect in the bell-shaped geometry of its structure — just how we stereotypically imagine a tree to be. And it is totally unique. No other tree has this exact same form: this particular juxtaposition of branches and twigs or this precise array and distribution of leaves. Its form is a unique ecological fingerprint, the visible expression of the interplay between genetics, weather, and human use, over centuries.

It is a masterpiece.  

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The form of a tree is unique in other, more profound ways too. No other creature has a form which can be read like a book to decipher the grammar and vocabulary of the climate and ecology of a place quite like that of a tree. Each tree is thus an ancient (or modern) encyclopaedia with chapters concerning fauna and flora, local history, geology, and more. As Wendell Berry notes, form at its core is about quality,¹ and by extension, value. Discerning and appreciating the form of a tree is one means of ascertaining its value beyond a mere quantitative measure of “boards and feet”. A value that consists of aesthetics and ecological history — a value that is beyond measure.

Not only valuable to admirers and foresters alike, trees are also depended upon by creatures great and small. A single English Oak can provide food and lodgings for over three hundred different species: Rooks nest in its crown and Great Spotted Woodpeckers excavate their nesting holes in the heart of its trunk. Caterpillars feast on its leaves and woodlice seek refuge in the crevices of its bark. Moss gathers on its northern, shaded side and oak apple galls develop on twigs where parasitic wasps have paid a visit. The form of the tree is thus a life-giving form — a convivial home to an abundance of life. The plentiful variation in form and structure — shade-giving leaves, gnarled and creviced bark, angular branches, and hollows excavated by the weathering of time — creates a wealth of niches supporting a diverse ensemble of creatures, some of whom will enact their entire life story upon its bark and branches. It is their entire world.

Though the role of genetics takes precedence in determining the form of a tree, we perhaps fail to appreciate just how great a product of the climate an individual tree is. Its rootedness to its place, coupled with the seemingly endless duration of its existence, allows the wind, rain, and sun to mould and shape this organism to an extent like no other creature. The most dominant climatic sculptor is the prevailing wind, most starkly observed in Krummholz:² trees that have been relentlessly buffeted by ferocious mountain winds and thus exist in a form whereby they are permanently and violently bent in the direction of the prevailing mountain winds. Even in lower and more sheltered reaches, the influence of the prevailing wind cannot be overstated. In the photo that heads this essay, one can see that the tree is far from symmetrical; the prevailing wind is almost undoubtedly part of the cause. Finally, the marks of ancient storms are also indelibly fixed upon ancient trees; snags and hollows are the scars of lightning and severe gales, a perpetual reminder of all that a tree has endured.

The sun, too, plays a significant role in partnership, or perhaps, in competition, with the wind. The precise geometry of the branches and twigs in relation to the trunk and to each other reflect how the branches have searched for and found the life-giving light of the sun over many years. Returning again to the photo of the tree, the unequal distribution of leaves concentrating on the right suggests that the right (or, more accurately, southern) side receives more light during the day. As Tristan Gooley says: trees can be read. And in more ways than one.

The lust for sunlight takes on a highly disparate expression when we travel to the northern latitudes of the globe. This is the kingdom of the conifers where in stark contrast to the rounded form of broadleaf trees, these trees take on a triangular form, clothed with a multitude of needle-shaped, dark green leaves. Both the shape of conifers and the colour of their leaves are designed for maximal light acquisition in a region where sunlight is a scare commodity. I, for one, find them beautiful — though rarely will they match the magnificence of an Oak or Sycamore.

To go on a brief tangent, it is worth noting that the form of a conifer is less influenced by the changing seasons and is subject to fewer cycles of life and death, decay and new growth. As an abundance of death leads to an abundance of life, it is no surprise that conifers themselves, and their forests in particular, harbour greatly diminished communities of other creatures when compared to a broadleaved forest. The general unpalatability of their leaves does not help either. However, those species which do call conifers home tend to be specialists of unique beauty and ingenuity, such as the Crossbill with its improbably shaped bill, and the diminutive Firecrest, a true jewel of the conifer forest.

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Even in death, beauty persists in a tree long after life ceases to course through its veins and phloem. A 15 mile drive away from my home stands a grove of dead oaks — the petrified oaks of Mundon. Skeletal in form, with their gnarled and twisted branches lifted up to the heavens, these trees would be somewhat frightening, spooky even, in the light of the full moon. And if a distant vixen screams or a tawny owl hoots even the most hardened of men will quake in their boots! But they are sublimely beautiful — and immensely valuable. Leopold once remarked: “Dead trees are transmuted into living animals” and he was right. As well as being visually spectacular, dead trees harbour a wealth of deadwood specialist species such as Willow Tits, Lesser Spotted Woodpeckers, and Stag Beetles. Sadly, many of these species have suffered severe declines as man endeavours to keep woodlands clean and tidy by removing fallen logs and decaying trees, which shows just how ecologically illiterate we are.

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I have been waxing lyrical about trees for some time now. It should be obvious that I hold the belief that felling a tree is not a morally neutral act. When we put an axe to the trunk, we are not just felling a tree — we are erasing a visual record of ancient climatic history and are destroying the home of countless species great and small. In many cases, we also irreversibly altering cherished landscapes — an act which can provoke a visceral response, such as when the beautiful, ancient tree of Sycamore Gap was heartlessly felled by vandals last year. The aghast and anguished reaction of the nation was wholly warranted. For this act of utter stupidity was an act of immense significance and irreversible consequence. In a matter of minutes, the slayer wielding a chainsaw destroyed a picture-perfect view — eternally. The unique form of the Sycamore Gap tree will never be restored. The weather conditions and genetics that shaped it cannot be replicated — no matter how hard we try.

Though felling a tree is always an irreversible and destructive act that radically alters the surrounding ecosystem and the landscape aesthetics, these facts do not necessarily make the act immoral. We do have a right to alter and use creation, and at times, this will entail felling a tree. Much good can result from the “Good Forester” undertaking his job well. Wooden products are often far superior to their synthetic or plastic alternatives and retain, when well crafted, some of the beauty of the felled tree. Further, not all trees are created equal. It is near sacrilege to fell an ancient oak; it is normal to fell a plantation conifer. These softwood trees have been planted to be felled — it is their destiny — and this is expressed in their relatively thin, ultra-straight form for which they have been bred and selected for. No wonder, then, that forests of these monocrops are biodiversity deficient; they have not been designed for life but for death. There is no great loss when these trees are felled, and felling may even create a moment in the cycle of the plantation when abundant life does indeed burst forth, thanks to the sudden abundance of light on the forest floor. But still, the act of felling in a plantation remains a moment of significance as a creature has its life taken away, thus the chop should be enacted with care, reverence, and gratitude. But this is not how we act — neither out on the plantations or at home in our gardens.

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I wince every time I hear the sound of a chainsaw rev up in my neighbourhood, for I know beauty is about to be felled. For the sake of convenience (for it is “too laborious” to rake up the leaves for modern man) and lifeless neatness, the trend of homeowners destroying their trees is continuing apace. It’s not only in the gardens. Along suburban boulevards, in city centres, and even out in the countryside, our veteran trees are falling. Incompetent town councils, lazy landowners, health and safety clipboard wielding bureaucrats all share the unenviable title: The Slaughterer of Trees. And in an age where the importance of trees is stressed by politicians and scientists alike, the ease as to which a council decimates its trees is baffling. And telling.

Very telling.

The character of a man (or an institution) can be judged, in part, by how easily and thoughtlessly he fells or permits a tree to be felled. In other words, by how readily and carelessly he destroys part of Creation for the sake of ease, convenience, profit, or efficiency. The constant mechanical buzz of chainsaws round the globe annihilating oaks and pines alike without a second thought (or without some effort of restoration of the degraded ecosystem that is left behind), stands in damnable testimony against us. The trees of the fields cannot clap their hands³ nor can the forest sing for joy to the Lord⁴ if they are all decimated. Neither can their life-giving form house species we love and cherish when we leave behind a “forest of mere stumps”. Future generations will judge us on the quality of the forests and woodlands that we bequeath to them. We can either steward, use, and protect the trees we ourselves have been bequeathed wisely and with care, or we can decimate them and let future generations suffer the consequences. It matters greatly which path we choose.

Luther is said⁵ to have remarked “If I knew that tomorrow was the end of the world, I would plant an apple tree today!”. Wisdom abounds in this brief utterance; for the planting of a tree is a most significant act — whose life-giving effects may endure for millennia.

So take the time today to delight in the form of a tree — you’ll be a better man or woman for doing so. And perhaps, consider planting one. Future generations will thank you.

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Wendell Berry Reading Group

The next Wendell Berry Reading Group will be taking place on June 1st at 6pm UK time. Paid subscribers will shortly be receiving an email with Zoom links. We will be considering the essay The Prejudice Against Country People.

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1. Wendell Berry, Quantity Versus Form.

2. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krummholz From the German Krumm (crooked) Holz (wood)

3. Isaiah 55:12

4. 1 Chronicles 16:33

5. Though it is possibly (likely?) apocryphal