Trees communicate at the pace of a third of an inch a minute, apparently.
I know, right? It was, in fact, news to me that they could communicate at all.*
But when they’re under attack, they’ll send signals through their roots, reaching out for other trees in the area, to give them a heads-up, so that they can release chemicals and pheromones to call for help from sympathetic species.
A third of an inch a minute isn’t fast enough to stop a human with a chainsaw. But when you consider how long trees have been around on this planet, 350 million years, in comparison to our lowly six million, it makes you think there’s a lot they can teach us about the true value of taking one’s time.
We tend to respond to emails within 24 hours, and since the invention of Slack, we’re all constantly in rapid response mode. It’s enough to make me long for the handwritten, well-considered letter, made from paper, made from chopped-down trees.
Forests grow together, for the betterment of all the trees in the canopy. In Modern New York, there’s a website mapping all of the city’s nearly 700,000 street trees, and amazingly, the city has quantified their financial benefit, based on how much stormwater they intercept, how much energy they conserve, and how much carbon dioxide they reduce. It’s more than $100 billion each year, which is almost as much as the city’s economic benefits from travel and tourism. There’s a 33-inch diameter Willow Oak a few blocks from me that’s worth nearly $500 a year to New Yorkers, on its own.
It’s enough to make me wonder whether the trees aren’t just biding their time until we’ve wiped ourselves out. Yes, I’ve been reflecting on all this, confined to my tiny apartment during the Coronavirus pandemic.
There’s no good way to be a tree, is there? They don’t sit there, trying to grow. They don’t overreach. They just let the rain, wind, sun, moon, and frosts come and go. They root into the ground. That’s how they grow. And when their canopy reaches a third the size of their root structure, they stop. They don’t get too greedy. If there are other trees around, they take care not to compete too much for light and shelter. They bide their time. They don’t sit there quantifying the financial contribution of people, here in New York City. They don’t worry too much about trying to figure out their meaning. They just slowly, gradually, grow.
Being from Southeast London, I’m inclined to communicate quickly. I drop t’s and h’s from my speech, saying “free” instead of “three” and “corrig’aye-‘id” instead of “corrigated,” just to get there quicker. The effect on the American listener is, frequently, to confuse them. But I imagine the original purpose of these verbal workarounds was for Southeast Londoners to get to the point more quickly than their centrally-located, more privileged counterparts. Add a decade in journalism to my psychological makeup and you can understand why I tend to think in large, multiple-pointed headlines, and allow others to take more time with life’s nuance.
But perhaps there’s something trees can teach me about how best to communicate.
How about you?
I’ve noticed recently that there’s value in taking longer to respond to emails. I can think things over and allow myself to respond with more finesse and perhaps, added value to the recipient.
I’ve started using an old film camera, again, to take pictures, so that I can enjoy the anticipation as I wait for the developing process. That’s a picture of an old oak tree, up there, that I took last week in Washington Square Park.
Three years ago, I enjoyed reading Deep Work, a career/self-help book by Cal Newport, about how these days, the thing that makes a professional really valuable is the ability to concentrate. It really struck me that I needed to draw clearer boundaries around my time, to focus most on what matters most.
And I’ve trained to be a yoga teacher. It’s a practice that’s rooted in taking deep breaths—just as trees are the lungs of the planet, it’s remarkable to me how much anxiety and stress and uncertainty can often be resolved by remembering to deeply breathe. It’s also surprising how much more balance one can acquire if one roots properly into the ground.
I’m aware that sharing this kind of meditation on LinkedIn is outrageous. I was supposed to make the point in the first paragraph and expand on it from there. To deliver you some neatly packaged, actionable conclusion several minutes ago, so that you could simply click “share” and write a witticism as you looked a little cooler for your professional network.
Sorry. Not sorry.
My most valuable networking is done by investing in people. I almost always try to pay people back five times over, if they make an introduction. But it’s also most successful when I try not to think of my colleagues in terms of the value they can bring. Work should be about something deeper. Don’t you think?
I’m genuinely curious to hear your reflections on the real value of slowing down a bit. However they may strike you.
*Peter Wohlleben, The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate―Discoveries from A Secret World (The Mysteries of Nature) is available on Bookshop.org
