“…for a man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to leave alone.”
-Henry David Thoreau, Walden
It was a just a small sapling when we moved to Roselawn Avenue in the summer of ’08. The recent flood had forced us out of our home on Sunset Drive (I suppose it was a sunset in many ways, but it was also a sunrise just the same).
The redbud had sprouted next to the fence separating the neighbor’s yard from ours, and I was convinced that, left to grow, it would somehow damage the man- made barrier. Thus began my attempts to eradicate it. I cut it off at the base, sprayed it with herbicide—I did everything but try to pull it out by the roots—I couldn’t get a firm grip. All my efforts failed and that stubborn little sapling held on.
I eventually gave up and let nature take its course. Other than an occasional pruning, I left it alone, the fence be damned. Left to its own devices, it has now grown almost twelve feet tall and provides ample shade for a native wildflower garden I planted around its base.
But…it would not bloom.
It was always full of leaves, but spring would come and go with nary a blossom. What was wrong with my tree? Had I treated it so harshly in its youth that it had turned its back on me? Or maybe the growing conditions weren’t quite right?
Redbuds, to me, have always been one of the sure signs of spring. They are the first tree in these parts to bathe the woods in color. Their rosy pink blossoms add a vibrant splash against the lingering browns and grays of the winter woods. The dogwoods in their white finery will be out soon but the redbuds lead the way.
I have largely ignored the redbud this time of year, not expecting to see anything but the green buds of the season’s leaves emerging. A few days ago, I was going about my outdoor chores and was finishing up mowing the backyard when I caught a glimpse of something that gave me a chill—my redbud was blooming—awakened from its inflorescent slumber! It was one of those sights that sends a tingle from your heart to your toes.
I’m not generally superstitious—-I’ve never been too caught up in the whole Friday the 13th thing, or the fears of walking under ladders or breaking mirrors. But, I do draw a clear distinction between things metaphysical and empirical. There are just some things that can’t be measured and placed into a neat and tidy little box or explained by a formula in some textbook. Something about the redbud touched me deep inside, beyond the pink blossoms and the emerging leaves. There was something mystical going on here.
The redbud also provided me with an important reminder, reflected in Thoreau’s words above. It took nine years for my redbud to bloom—after I decided to leave it alone—and I am richer for it. The more I try to shape events and their outcomes, the more likely I am to lose control. If I leave more things alone and let them play out they too may bloom at an unexpected hour—and perhaps even give my soul a little metaphysical chill.
John B. DeLap 