Stories Grow Like Trees

The old man ambled along the forest trail as the morning sun dawned on the horizon. Its rays were not yet warm on the skin—it still seemed cold and distant like a fire seen and not felt. The air was still cool from the lingering darkness of night. He didn’t mind the temperature. He was dressed warmly. His dark, paint-stained jeans were worn and faded. He wore a flannel shirt with autumnal colors over a long-sleeved shirt of deep, forest green. His hair was short and gray—tucked under a woolen cap—and a large beard obscured his features.

He walked along the path slowly. Not because of his age—he still moved with confidence and grace. Nor was it because he was unsure of his path—he walked this trail every day. Rather, he didn’t seem inclined to disturb the quiet stillness of the forest. It was just starting to awaken.

Birds began calling to one another in the trees, filling the forest with sound. Animals began moving through the underbrush, and the forest became alive once more.

The old man’s eyes were bright, and a contented smile played across his face as he glanced about his surroundings. He strolled farther down the path until he came to a simple wooden bench on the edge of a small cliff. The cliff overlooked the rest of the sprawling forest. A sea of green stretched out as far as the old man could see.

The old man sat on the wooden bench with a self-satisfied sigh. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook closed around a pen. He put them down beside him on the bench and simply observed the world around him. His eyes fell upon a small pine tree—just beginning to sprout up from the ground. It looked so fragile and small. How could it ever survive in this vast, unforgiving forest? After a moment, the old man spoke. His voice was soft and ponderous. He seemed to be addressing the small pine tree.

“Stories grow like trees, you know, my little friend. At least, mine do. They start from small, minuscule seeds as ideas. Now, not all of those story-seeds grow into good and proper stories. Not all of them survive past that seedling stage. Some are rejected or abandoned or whisked away by the storyteller tending them. With a careful, gardener’s eye, such stories are discarded for one reason or another.

“Perhaps they are too wild—too fantastical or unrealistic—for the storyteller to see how they could ever become stories accepted and appreciated and loved—without being immediately and heartlessly chopped down by those who don’t understand them. Perhaps they are too sinister and crooked and rotten to the core. Such ideas frighten the storyteller, and somehow, they know—if ever those story-seeds would take root and grow—they would fear the dark and terrible thing it would become. They would not like that story-seed as a tree. Or, perhaps the soil isn’t quite right for the story-seed to grow into something beautiful. And the storyteller knows that. It isn’t the time or place for such a tale—and so, the storyteller tucks it away in their pocket, to try and plant it another day. Maybe it will grow then. Who knows? Who knows…

“The ones that aren’t rejected or abandoned or saved for later slowly take root. Not in the ground like you, my little friend,” the old man smiled faintly. “They take root in the heart of the storyteller. And there’s no way of knowing what will happen to those ideas next. Some are strangled because other ideas are stronger and quicker than them. They take root initially, but with all the other story-seeds sprouting around them, they can’t quite reach the light. They wither and die before they’ve even had the chance to grow roots, deep and strong. Perhaps they might have become good and proper stories—given the time and attention and care—but who’s to say? There’s no way of knowing now. They’re gone.”

The old man paused and tilted his head to the side. He considered what he had said and then shook his head. “No, that’s not quite right, is it? Those story-seeds aren’t actually gone. Not really. When they die, they become the compost that fertilizes the other story-seeds. Their rich nutrients affect the other story-seeds in small and subtle ways. Without them, those other story-seeds would grow up to become different things—and not always for the better.

“See, here’s the thing about stories, my little friend—they’re not made up of just one seed. And that’s where they’re different from you. Rather, they’re made of many different story-seeds. All growing together to create a single story. Sometimes that happens quickly, and the stories take root and sprout up overnight. Other times… well.” The old man shook his head. “Sometimes, stories take a little longer to grow up. But they’re these large, looming things of beauty when they do. They’re strong and lasting. Just like hopefully you’ll be one day. Until then, keep growing, my little friend. Take your time. I’ll wait.”

The old man nodded thoughtfully and then chuckled, amused. He reached over and picked up the small, leather-bound notebook closed around a pen.

“Stories grow like trees. I like that.”

He opened the notebook to a fresh, unmarked page and began to write.

---