Green Enchantments. A Sentimental Praise of Trees

“You will find more in the woods than in books. Trees and rocks will teach you things that no teacher will ever tell you.” Written nine centuries ago, the words of Bernard of Clairvaux offer a fascinating insight in a society that is increasingly losing its connection with nature. Seemingly motionless and defenceless, trees line the roads we hastily pass through and, like symbols of tranquillity and anticipation, accompany our lives with their majestic silence. Guardians of a forgotten dimension that seems to put an end to the dominance of ‘doing’ and suggest the supremacy of ‘being’, trees are central figures – almost as if probing the arcane qualities they hold within – in recurring references in painting, poetry and art. “A tree is a primordial thing, full of mystery,” observed Romano Guardini, alluding to something “clear, eloquent”, yet which at the same time “continues to withdraw into the realm of the inexpressible”. It is an invitation to rediscover the ability to pause in the presence of nature, an exhortation to realise that – unlike people – no two trees are alike, but that each stands before us in its own unique way, as a synthesis of infinite variables: ‘More than the faces of men, I hold the features of trees in my heart,’ wrote Camillo Sbarbaro. Like doors left ajar onto an unknown possibility of attention (that so celebrated by Simone Weil, who even likened it to prayer), trees seem to call upon human beings to rediscover the ability to linger, to let their gaze rest, in order to grasp what Mario Luzi masterfully defined as ‘the immensity of the moment’. It is, in fact, in nature – in those spaces which, on numerous occasions throughout antiquity, were regarded as the abode of the divine – that we can experience an unprecedented density of the moment, glimpse the creatureliness of reality, and discover the vastness hidden behind every detail. Poetry teaches us this; far from being an escape from reality, it finds in nature a path towards the epiphany of the everyday, a path capable of leading us beyond superficiality and mere appearance. A loving attention to trees is particularly evident in the verses of Giovanni Pascoli, in which, significantly, we never find the generic term, but always the specific name: the almond tree and the apple tree that seem to rise towards the splendour of dawn, the apricot trees in bloom, the two peach trees, the two apple trees and the bitter scent of the white plum. Everything becomes a sign of an attitude which, shunning generality, suggests a sense of wonder at what exists—that ‘thaumazein’ which ancient wisdom places at the very origin of thought. With what thoughtful care does the poet of San Mauro immortalise the light filtering through the pines, a ray of sunshine darting across the olive trees, the fragility of the withered plants that ‘mark the clear sky with black patterns’. One realises, then, that it is only in the ‘inexpressible slowness’ described by Cardarelli that human beings can rediscover the rhythms of contemplation and regain that awareness which Umberto Saba articulated so definitively: ‘The indigo fades into a blue full / of stars. I sit by the window, and watch. / I watch and listen; for in this lies all / my strength: to watch and listen’.”

The patient, unhurried demeanour of those who pause before an object draws the gaze towards depths that would otherwise remain unknown, as in certain haiku from Japanese culture in which the observer seems to vanish, leaving room solely for the event itself: “The Great Morning: / amongst the pines blow / ancient winds”, or again: “In the middle of the field / the free song / of the lark”. Everything seems to stand still in these brief, chiselled words; everything becomes a sort of silent contemplation accompanied only by that ‘restless sweetness’ – to quote Montale – where ‘things / surrender themselves and seem close / to betraying their final secret’. What is perhaps most surprising is realising that there is a sort of mysterious, perpetual waiting in nature. A tension that is not contradicted, but rather preserved by that stillness which the Romantic Henry David Thoreau notes in his diaries: “At this time of year, the stillness of the woods and fields is striking. (…) The trees seem to be waiting for winter. (…) Everything stands still in silent anticipation”. It is there, far more so than anywhere else, that man can find something he clearly feels he needs, as is also demonstrated in our own time by the increasingly widespread flight from the noise of the cities, the search for simplicity, and the attempt to return to one’s true self: “In your chaste shade, old oak, / I wish to fathom the source of my life”, wrote García Lorca in 1919.

In an age such as ours, marked by a weakening of historical awareness and the absolutisation of the present, every tree also becomes an implicit invitation to regain a sense of time. Peter Wohlleben, in his book "La saggezza degli alberi" (Garzanti, 2017), explains that whilst until recently the North American "Pinus aristata", at five thousand years old, was considered the longest-lived species, a Swedish red pine has recently caused a stir, its roots having been dated to more than nine thousand years ago. “Every time I encounter a tree, I encounter it for the first time,” writes Tiziano Fratus in his book "I giganti silenziosi" (Bompiani, 2017), adding: “Trees, woods, forests and mountains, deserts and remote expanses have retained a sense of sacredness. They stir within us a spiritual yearning that leads us to respect them (…). By coming into contact with them, we come into contact with something greater, vaster, more immense, more cosmic. And also with something that keeps us connected (…) to the core that gave birth to life.”

The author takes us on a journey through some of the most precious specimens, from the plane trees in Villa Borghese in Rome to the palm tree associated with Goethe in Padua (1585), and on to the thousand-year-old ficus near Milan; and furthermore, the black locust tree dating from 1601 that stands near Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris, the hundred-year-old elm – at which the traitors of the American Revolution were executed – in Washington Square in New York, and the thousand-year-old yew that stands near St Andrew’s Church in London. A sense of wonder grows as one delves deeper into these remarkable records, whether they relate to height (the record is held by a Californian Sequoia sempervirens standing over 115 metres tall), volume (held by another American sequoia known as the Sherman Tree) or, indeed, longevity. Every tree bears the traces of a long history that has shaped it to the present day and can tell us its story. One simply needs to know how to observe. And it is precisely to observe that trees seem to invite us, in their static yet ever-evolving nature. We find numerous examples of this in painting, which has made trees the subject of famous canvases: think of that master of the gaze, Théodore Rousseau (The Oaks of Apremont are an example of an almost mystical relationship with nature) or, even more evocatively, in works by Vincent van Gogh such as Wheatfield with Cypresses and The Pavers. Here there is no longer any imitation; rather, it is the observer’s subjectivity that pervades the work: ‘One must not copy nature, but understand it,’ said the Dutch master; ‘I see everywhere in nature, for example in trees, a capacity for expression and, so to speak, a soul’. In 1889, whilst in hospital, Van Gogh also painted the series of canvases "Olive Trees" and, in a letter to his mother, wrote: “There are some beautiful fields here with olive trees with silver-grey leaves (…). I never tire of the blue sky’”. The mystery inherent in nature is also the subject of “The Four Trees”, which Claude Monet painted in 1891 as part of a cycle of twenty-four canvases, whilst perched on a boat, in order to capture the infinite reflections that the light produced on the water. “I did nothing but look”: this statement, attributed to the French painter, is evocative and encapsulates not only the Impressionist aesthetic but, more broadly, the deepest roots of the act of painting. A tree so majestic that it extends beyond the limits of the frame is the one painted by Gustave Courbet, entitled "The Oak of Flagey", whilst the way in which Piet Mondrian, with "Red Tree", moves painting away from the dictates of the previous figurative language is of striking impact. Painting, the imprint of a moment in which being reveals its significance, opens our eyes to what normally eludes us. It is something akin to the attention Gabriele d’Annunzio pays in the verses of "La pioggia nel pineto": through the absolute absence of voices ("Be still" is the first word of the poem), we come to hear the elusive voice of nature – the freshest of words that the poet invites us to grasp – whilst the rain produces a different sound depending on the trees upon which it falls ("And the pine / has one sound, and the myrtle / another sound, and the juniper / yet another”).

The philosopher Max Picard recalls one of the most intense and enriching moments as being when he immerses himself in the tranquillity of nature and notices that things there seem to reveal themselves with greater intensity; he writes: “The most beautiful thing in the woods is when absolutely nothing happens. It is not that nothingness grows within us, but quite the opposite: things take on their true proportions”. This is the religious perception of reality: not allowing thought to take precedence over pure contemplation provides an opportunity to discover that – as Bertrand Russell observed – happiness is more easily found in the little things: “I have made a strange discovery. Whenever I speak to a scholar, I am convinced that happiness is impossible. Yet, when I speak to my gardener, I am convinced of the opposite.”

In the final verses of the Odyssey, having taken his revenge on the arrogant suitors, Odysseus (who had been laid to sleep by the Phaeacians at the very foot of an olive tree) goes to the countryside where Laertes now lives, having left the palace overrun by the arrogance of the suitors. There, in tears, he reveals himself to his father and, to convince him, describes the garden in detail: “And I shall also tell you the names of the trees in this well-tended orchard which you once gave me (…): you gave me thirteen pear trees, and ten apple trees, and forty fig trees, and fifty rows of vines”. As witnesses to a now-distant past, the trees become proof of the hero’s identity. And yet another tree forms the climax of the Homeric plot when, faced with the impossible task of carrying out of the bridal chamber a bed carved from an olive tree trunk, Penelope secures proof of her guest’s sincerity: “Who has moved – asks the hero, distressed – my bed? ‘No living man, not even one in the prime of life, could move it without effort, for there is a great secret in the well-made bed.’ At the heart of the definitive recognition lies a tree which, on closer inspection, constitutes both the beginning and the culmination of man’s adventures: ‘The root of the Odyssey is an olive tree,’ Paul Claudel significantly observed.

With their imposing yet discreet presence, trees stand in silence as guardians of an unattainable secret, teaching us that stillness in which the answer to the soul’s deepest longings seems to lie: ‘Trees are sanctuaries. Those who know how to speak to them, those who know how to listen to them, perceive the truth,’ wrote Herman Hesse. What truth is he referring to? Perhaps something not far removed from the unexpected wonder one experiences when, all of a sudden, one happens to observe things as if seeing them for the first time: “But I am / amazed when I look at the garden…”, reads a passage by Guido Gozzano; “Amazed by what? By things. / The flowers seem strange to me: / there are still roses, / there are still geraniums…”.