When trying to weave natural elements into our modern lives, it’s interesting to see the ways in which we interpret the natural in mechanical ways. For a month over the past Summer, I worked on a tree farm for my Uncle’s housing development. I oversaw a few thousand trees that would be planted by the side of the streets in the community. Sycamores, London planes, white pines, hickories and oaks galore, I was in charge of making sure they were watered, fertilized, planted and repotted. Some trees were a year or two old, others just sprouting, but all to be treated with a mechanical mind, as I was taught. Often, I found myself staring in awe of each small woody branch reaching out of the ground, the chaotic dance of leaves in the wind, and the organic architecture of each green skyscraper-to-be. These trees would grow and become beautiful in the community that my uncle was creating, but the process of growing them felt alienating.
Each tree was to be watered twice a day for four seconds, each with 28 psi, but only within a strict time frame. The nursery was filled with lines of trees, nearly 100 in a row, three rows side by side and then a walking space, then another three rows. The pots were policed each day, weeds plucked, new branches snipped and deformities removed. The open yard the trees were placed in began to feel like an open-air warehouse; I patrolled the aisles, strutting up and down the black plastic tarp surveying the goods. The process was mechanical, the trees were anything but natural. These trees would be used to give the community a natural element, but they lacked any sense of real naturalism of their own. This garden of trees felt worlds apart from the thriving forests I hiked through in my childhood.
The most natural part about standing in the middle of this tiny little forest was closing your eyes and feeling anything else. The blistering hot sun would turn any uncovered skin pink and tender, the wind would blow gently and the clouds would slowly drift across the sky. The red-winged blackbirds would chirp and sing a chorus as they swooped to and fro to chase the bugs interrupting their songs. A few times it would storm, and the bright flashes of lighting would shock the sky, and the rain would pound on the brim of my hat. These moments distracted me from my work, but reminded me of the nature that was truly present.
As the world modernizes, trying to keep in touch with nature by bring her to our doorstep is impossible. Any potted plant or flowerbed may be pretty for a decorative piece, but was planted and raised solely by the power of man. The trees will look fantastic next to the neighbor’s 2017 Honda, but they have both been built by similar processes.
Nature is not something we can adapt into our lives, we must adapt to it. To visit mother nature, we must walk to her doorstep and bow, humbling ourselves and respecting her power. One may try to pick a bouquet of flowers on a stroll through the woods, but they cannot live in the glass vase we place them in at home. The only way to preserve that flower would be to grow it from seed in our garden beds, or dig up the plant and the earth from underneath. In doing this over thousands of years, we have destroyed nature and our perception of “the natural world,” and we cannot force it back into our lives with sculpted sycamore trees or ornamental orchids.
In the abandoned radioactive town of Chernobyl, we see a beautiful anomaly; a man-made city abandoned, and an area reclaimed by nature. Albeit the trees, spiderwebs, birds and deer all show signs of radioactive poisoning, their beauty can be seen in the reclaiming of an abandoned city. Many scientists have grown fond of studying the effects on the radiation on the growing wildlife, and photographers and environmentalists have joined them on some trips, bringing back stunning photos of what happens when mother nature reclaims the land. True nature is found not only in undiscovered lands, but also in the absence of humans, adapting to places we could not. Nature does not fit inside the mechanical lives of humans, but only outside our reaches.
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