On Trees

The other day we were talking about miracles at church. One guy raised his hand and said that we too often forget to include the process of time in our accounting of miracles. Our definition of miraculous is simply quick, dramatic change. He used tree growth as an example. Yes, it would be National Inquirer cool if you planted a seed and woke up the next morning to a five story sweet gum tree but in the scheme of things, that is no more or less miraculous than the fact that there was once a seed planted and over the process of twenty, thirty, fifty years it has become massive. But who notices something becoming massive? One day it just is.

I've been thinking about this lately because I have been out of high school long enough now that time has worked its process, but not long enough that I am any different physically. In fact, I think I look the exact same although my dear husband emphatically insists that he would not have been attracted to me if he had met me in high school (compliment or insult: you decide). But the fact remains: I'm different now. Not as different as I want to be, granted, but definitely different. Maybe even noticeably so. Or maybe not. And that is what's been kinda bugging me lately.

Which brings me to a conversation that I had with my friend Natalie the other day. We spent a lot of time together in high school and our first few years at college together. She is easily one of my favorite people because no matter how much time has elapsed between our last conversation, the talk always flows easy and doesn't usually make its way back to people we used to know, etc. However, this time it did because Natalie asked me, almost furtively, if I wanted to go to our ten year reunion. My answer was a no, but it was more complicated than that and I tried to explain but I didn't need to. I got the sense that she felt the same way. We agreed that it would be interesting to know what happened to everyone, but not interesting enough to have to account your change to people whose opinions once mattered very much and now matter not so much at all.

I once read an article by Erma Bombeck (I think it was her) that talked about getting old. She said that we never really lose an age, we just keep adding ages like rings on a tree. So you never stop being seven or fifteen or twenty, you just gain twenty-five and thirty and forty-two. And sometimes when you are crying, it is simply that you are paying homage to the part of you that is still two.

Under this logic, instead of wanting to wear a T-shirt at the high school reunion that says "I've changed" maybe it would be better to wear something like "Twenty-four was great. Ask to see it sometime." But, as it stands for me, I probably won't be wearing any T-shirt at any reunion any time soon. I'm different now. And I don't really want to go.