Commusings: Our Guardian Tree by Jonny Thomson

I have a special relationship with a tree. I use the word “relationship” very deliberately because this particular relationship, as with all relationships, is a complicated one. The tree in question is a vast, centuries-old chestnut tree with branches longer than my house.

At times, the tree looms. It bears down with arboreal gravity. At other times, it protects me. It offers my family shelter from the scarier parts of the world. My four-year-old has taken to calling it “Our Guardian Tree,” because we say it will protect him from bad dreams.

So far, it has.

And, ever since this impromptu naming ceremony, my relationship with this tree has deepened. When I find myself suffocating inside my head — from worry or with a puzzle — I will look up at Our Guardian Tree. Usually, the tree will push out roots into my densely packed thoughts to loosen the soil a bit. It will offer me a canopy to rest under.

I do not think there’s anything especially uncommon about my relationship with Our Guardian Tree. When you stare at anything truly old, you will likely feel a similar magic. In J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle-earth lore, the power of any creature is almost directly proportional to its age — older entities like ancient wizards and primeval woodlands were powerful indeed. I suspect Tolkien spent a lot of time looking at old trees.

When I attend Our Guardian Tree, I am overcome by some ancient magic. I don’t mean this in any kind of literal, supernatural sense. This is not the sorcery of fireballs or divination. I mean it in a way you can only understand by taking the time to attend a tree.

I’m sure you’ve done it. If you haven’t, do so. 

• • •

That word, “attend,” is not a common one and laced with philosophical prestige. When the 20th-century British philosopher Iris Murdoch talks about “attending” to things, it’s different from simply seeing them. Murdoch refers to it as “a just and loving gaze” that involves a kind of unselfing. When you attend to something or someone, you leave behind your own life and your own problems and reorient yourself entirely to focus on the thing in front of you.

If this sounds a lot like love, that’s not without cause. For Murdoch, attending to people is the first and necessary step in any loving relationship. Maybe it’s weird to you that I’m talking about loving trees with the earnest ease of an old hippie out of Woodstock.

I accept that. I accept that “loving trees” is an odd thing to say these days, especially in the same breath we speak about loving our children or a sibling. And that’s because we don’t talk this way anymore. We don’t animate the world. We don’t ensoul things. We lack what the environmentalist Robin Wall-Kimmerer calls the “grammar of animacy” in her book, Braiding Sweetgrass.

• • •

In English, we usually divide things into personal pronouns like “he/she/they” and impersonal pronouns like “it.” When we call something "it,” we objectify. When you refer to your friend as “he” or your cat as "she," then you set them up as someone with whom to form a relationship and not with an exploitative dynamic of instrumentalism. Using personal pronouns creates a mirror; we see others as like us, and our selfhood reaches out to absorb that thing. We establish kinship.

And when we call something an “it” we refuse to engage emotionally with it at all. An “it” is to be used. You cannot love a tool. You cannot hate a tool.

Our tendency to “it” many aspects of the natural world — like a tree or the breeze — is a peculiarity not seen in other, especially indigenous, languages. Wall-Kimmerer uses Potawatomi as an example. These Native American people talk about rocks as animate, as well as mountains, water, fire, and places. They treat “things” as having a spirit of their own — even songs and stories are given personal pronouns. It’s a habit seen in many animistic religions, which tend to deify the natural world. They set up the winds and the trees not only as forces to respect but also as spirits to communicate with.

Wall-Kimmerer does not suggest we should (or can) change the grammars into which we’re born. But we can acknowledge how it frames the natural world. Treating nature as an “it” distances us from it. It creates a wall where things are kept at arm’s length and regarded with cold detachment. When we do this, we feel no moral responsibility towards nature — a responsibility we do feel for the animate things of the world.

• • •

Kimmerer’s point echoes one that the philosopher Martin Buber made decades earlier. For Buber, when we meet things, we categorize them in one of two ways. Either we approach them as a “thou” or an “it.” An “I-It” relationship is one where we treat the other as an object to be used.

It sees it as just another item in the universe. It objectifies things and sees them in terms of what they can do for us, but it also labels them. It diminishes them. The tree opposite my house was once an “it” — a tree like all others, if somewhat larger. You do not spend long thinking about an “it.”

An “I-Thou” relationship, though, is one of reciprocity and openness. It treats the other as something with its own value. It refuses to call it this or that but recognizes how unique and wonderful it is. Our Guardian Tree cannot be substituted for any other large chestnut tree. It has now been imbued with meaning. It’s a partner. In some ways, it’s even a part of our family. (Although I’d have a hard time writing it into my will.)

Most of the “I-It” relationships in our lives are formed with objects. We rarely approach a pillow or a coffee cup with the intention of forming a relationship. We have neither the emotional bandwidth nor practical need to call every object in life “thou.” That said, there are a great many and surprisingly common fringe cases where objects can be more than “it” and people can be less than “thou.”

For instance, suppose you’re talking to a friend of many years. This is an “I-Thou” dynamic. You’re opening up and welcoming in, as all good relationships allow. Imagine that, as the conversation ends, you say, “We should do this again; let me find a time.” Suddenly, the very same person has transformed from a complex and special “Thou” to a moveable object or data point in your calendar — an "it." They are objectified as “Meet Ellen for coffee on September 27.”

But there are examples the other way, too. When we’re engrossed in a book, wandering in distant lands, and lost in fictional lives, the book is a Thou. The moment the book ends and it’s slotted away into a bookcase, it becomes an It. More poignantly, it’s seen in a key moment of growing up. A young child will often have a cuddly toy to hold tight at night or to talk to when alone. But, one day, that toy will become “just a bear.” It’s put away for the last time and never again picked up as a Thou.

• • •

What we call things is important. It establishes the rules under which a relationship is to form. Or it lays down deliberate boundaries that prevent a relationship from forming. Sometimes, objectification and “I-It” distancing can be a kind of empathetic inoculation. Sometimes it’s necessary.

But, more often than not, the world is richer, happier, and kinder when it’s filled with “I-Thou” relationships. Of course, the most meaningful of these will be those formed with your immediate loved ones. A book will not replace a spouse. A tree is not a surrogate for your children. But that doesn’t mean that we cannot each populate our lives with more of these kinds of relationships. We can approach the world with an eagerness and listen to the universe with openness.

And so, if I may, here is some homework (notice how even that sentence turns this newsletter from a Thou into an It): If you’re out on a walk or find yourself alone in your garden, find a space under some old, wise tree and start a conversation.

Talk about your day, your worries, and your life. Ask about the tree’s history, roots, and problems. Treat the tree as something with which you can form a relationship. 

Attend to the tree and imagine what bothers them. What concerns the tree, and how can you help? See the tree as animate. See them as a friend to make. Because if there’s one thing that makes life far more enjoyable, it’s having more friends.