The delights of decay

The Hidden Life of Trees, Peter Wohlleben’s marvelous book, provided part of the inspiration for the metaphor of aging as an old growth forest. Last Christmas Hal and I bought ourselves a gift of the coffee-table version of the book, complete with dozens of beautiful photographs. The text is an abridged version of the original.

The third chapter of the coffee-table book is entitled “The Delights of Decay” and describes how trees age. The chapter begins by pointing out similarities between old trees and old humans. Take bark and skin, for example. Both trees and humans shed. As they age, the cracks, folds, and wrinkles in a tree’s bark change, “steadily deepening as the years progress.” The analogy is obvious.

Another sign of aging in a tree occurs in its crown. It just doesn’t grow new shoots like it used to. In conifers, “the ramrod-straight trunks end in topmost shoots or leaders that are gradually reduced to nothing.” In many aging men, the “topmost shoots” also become scarce.

Let me quote the next comparison: “Every tree gradually stops growing taller. Its roots and vascular system cannot pump water and nutrients any higher because this exertion would be too much for the tree. Instead, the tree just gets wider.” No comment.

Wohlleben goes on to show how trees age gracefully, providing housing for all kinds of beasts, as well as the foundations for new life in baby trees. Part of the delight of an old growth forest is the integration of all the stages in the lives of the trees, including their decay.

Speaking of the delights of decay, at this point the metaphor breaks down. The inevitable disintegration of body parts and functions in aging humans is not delightful. Maybe some people come to a point of peaceful resignation, but they encounter discouragement and agony along the way. (And some never become resigned.)

Take the sense of hearing, a common problem of elder-decay. In fact, this has become a stereotype of aging and a source of jokes. The conversation of older couples is depicted as being punctuated by “What?” “Could you repeat that?” “Wad-ja-say?” and on and on. Very funny.

Until it happens to you. 

This is happening to Hal and it’s been a source of agony as so much of a conversation slips past him. He’s not good at pretending to laugh at a joke when he missed hearing the last part. So he ends up looking grumpy, when that’s not the case at all. We now need to find a table in the quieter section of the dining hall if we’re feeling sociable (which we frequently are). He’s a musician, which makes it worse. In rehearsals, he has to ask the horn player next to him what the conductor just said. It would help if the skin of his ears wasn’t so irritated by the plastic in his hearing aids.

And it’s not something that happens just to the person. It affects the couple. Or the friendship. If I were a more perfect person, consistently patient and kind, life would be easier for both of us. But some days I just get irritated at having to hear “What?” so often. Or at realizing he’s smiling in agreement even when he hasn’t heard me, just because it’s easier that way. I guess this is my True Confession. I guess I need to see this as another opportunity to grow in grace and patience. Maybe someday I’ll be that perfect wife.

And then there’s the observation that I, myself, am starting to repeat, “Could you say that again?” What could that possibly mean?

I’m laughing as I write this. But it’s not really that funny, and I wish it were not happening. But it is.

St. Paul tells us to be encouraged, that decay is not the last word: “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:16-18).

Might we also decide to fix our ears on what is unheard rather than on what is heard (and what we can’t hear anyway)?

We may not be trees, but there is still delight in this old forest. Delight that lasts a long time.