There is an importance in the trees. Not just oxygen, shade, CO2 sequestration. Something else. Something we who run down the road to catch the bus that’s already 7 minutes late, who look at birds and glare (because who gave them permission to wake us up at 5:30am), who shred the grass looking for daisies and to check if you like butter know without knowing even though it is hard to know and the information can be faulty or you don’t trust it completely because it doesn’t quite make sense in a way you understand - and when the buildings are built cramped together down windy roads that barely just leave space for street lamps -- what we know is taken and pushed aside, pushed inside, inside for studying and essays and looking after others and Important Work.
But we know.
We know because when we leave the office in winter and it’s dark at 4pm we are sad. The darkness wraps around us, wind shoving us down the street, our comfort - warm blankets and Netflix, with all the windows shut. And that is nice. But, leaving the office at 4pm when it’s light outside. That is something else.
And people take trains and cars and journey far away for the weekend or a night to get to the country, the forest, the Lakes. But why do they have to go so far? Why do we have to go so far? To see the trees. To see a tree that isn’t bare and skinny and bursting out of its concrete cage. To see a tree that isn’t alone.
My mother is a city person. She is the most powerful person I’ve ever met, shorter than average, never seen without heels, with a look that could make the naughtiest, most attention seeking of children stop and listen. Eyes narrowed but bulging slightly at the same time, lips pursed into a tight asterisk, eyebrows raised just above the rim of her glasses. My childhood was full of that look. When I think of my mother, I think of air conditioned shopping malls, big dark sunglasses, and shiny pink acrylic nails. I think of her sweating in the kitchen over a pot of chicken curry, imbuing it with love and flavour. I think of her driving me and my three siblings to school every morning, waking us up, cooking breakfast, ironing the school skirt I only gave her 10 minutes before we had to leave, us still leaving on time.
When we visit her parents, my grandparents, in Malaysia, I admire the large green leaves hanging over the house. Dense jungles of foliage cling to the roads. I think of how my mother, 30 years a resident of London, looks so different when standing in front of bushes instead of buildings, not uncomfortable but not so sure in her stance, the tilt of her chin downwards that says, oh yes, I belong here. I think of how she hopped, skipped, jumped to England an invincible 18, the big wide world of opportunity university paves the path for waiting, laughing at the thunderclouds she swapped for a lifetime of golden sun burning her face. My mother is a city person. Never forgot the picnic mat to sit on so our legs didn’t itch, tans on a towel on the beach far enough away from the ocean to avoid the danger of splashes by her careless children on a package holiday to Dubai. A city person. And us, a city family.
There is no better feeling than standing on one of the streets connecting to Leicester Square, not the big open space with the lion statues you could climb if you were brave enough (I was, once, spurred on by the giddy laughter of 13 year olds who think they own the world), but the sprawling side streets only wide enough to drive one way, the cobbled road knobbly kneed and rough enough to trip even a regular in a rush. Count the theatres as you pass them, grab a sandwich, or box of noodles, or falafel wrap, box of sushi even, the choices aren’t limited here even on a budget if you know where to find them, sit in the middle of the Seven Dials roundabout, feel the hard cold stone on your ass, knees up, scarf protecting you against the harsh wind in winter, cap protecting your neck from the sun in summer, either way watch the way the breeze sweeps the leaves from the clasps of branches of trees scattered like the shards of a glass smashed on the stones, twirls them around tourists, theatre-goers, falls into your hair, follows you home until you shake them out onto your floor, a memento of the day, a reminder the city is always there. The city is a place and it is also you. A part of you.
There was, simply, no other place for me. My fondest memories all involve, somehow, the uneven pavement of varying shades of grey, the streetlamps twinkling, like stars, guiding me, the winding roads, the unmistakable clear smell of the city, air tinged with the metallic smell of exhaust fumes, cold enough to feel fresh on your face even though its not, whiffs of that bin smell as you walk down a side street. The melting pot analogy is overused when it comes to London, but for good reason.
For me, the dichotomy between city and country could not be clearer. I walked through a small park with a few different kinds of trees to get to the train station after school most days. But for the life of me, I could not tell you the name of a single one. Trees were trees, grass was grass, and flowers were pretty or, when past their prime, not. Living in a big city was exciting to me - colourful architecture, shops and stalls and people, I could go to all kinds of places simply by hopping on the tube. There were parks, sure, fun to have picnics on, and sunbathe in the few months of the year it was warm enough, but they weren’t special in themselves. There was no reason for them to be.
When I was 14, I took part in a school program for credit that required a two day camping trip somewhere in the good English countryside among some other tasks, sports, volunteering. The Duke of Edinburgh award proved to potential employers the recipient was a Well Rounded Individual, and I was nothing if not a keen and eager child. I’d never been camping before, and it would be my first night away from home, with friends. It sounded like an adventure, something different, something fun. My parents were slightly confused as to why I wanted to do it, but my dad handed me an old sleeping bag, used on weekend trips, and my mum handed me a light pink yoga mat, a sleeping mat substitute. Kind of soft and big enough to lie on, I strapped it to my oversized bag and left, before the sun rose, to board a train to the countryside. I was excited to be away, from home, from school, and to see this magical place called the Peak District. We had been studying the Romantics in English and I was enough of a nerd to be completely enraptured, and want to see for myself what all the lark about daffodils was. But, it was also April. I realised my mistake as we settled down for the night. The yoga mat, as plush as it is on bare feet when indoors, offers little protection against the hard ground. I could feel the rocks, tiny, tiny rocks, dig into my back as I struggled in my sleeping bag, the warmth of my body running away into the earth, my sleeping bag doing little more to keep me warm than a plastic bag. Here, the countryside was cruel, it told me I didn’t belong there, and I believed it.
Although the next trip, the one that actually counted toward to program, was very different, in the heat of summer, with a brand new sleeping bag, fresh from the giant outdoors shop filled with rows and rows of utensils and knick-knacks I couldn’t begin to name, I had fun. The sun made halos around the clouds, blessing my group’s days. I laid my bag down next to a small, bubbling stream, and the smell of the running water, metallic through the greenery, filled my lungs.
And yet, in this field so far away, it felt just that - far away. This was different. The countryside and the city sat contently at the two ends of my mind.
And that was how they stayed, until a couple of years ago.
I first landed in California on a day that was much too hot to be September, sweat pooling under my shirt making it stick to my body uncomfortably. Transitions are often uncomfortable, but I’d been looking forward to this one for damn near 4 years and I was not going to let a bit of sun ruin it. Although it was not just the sun. Chemistry. Obnoxious boys. Amongst other things. When I arrived at Jasper Ridge (Stanford’s Biological Preserve, an oasis of seemingly untouched greenery just 15 minutes from campus) for the first time I looked at the sky and it was white. It was white and it stretched as far as I could see towering over the ancient, wrinkled trees, extending upwards forever. It was the outdoors. As I thought about my presence, on this patch of land so far, far away from the heart of the city that housed what I was escaping from[1], I felt on another plane, in some alternate universe called America that was free while not being free at all, but in that moment, I felt the open air and the lack of a pull to the familiar and I felt free. I went back. Of course I went back. I learnt about birds, reptiles, plants. I learnt how to spend all afternoon outside and call it ‘learning’. I learnt how to be knee deep in mud, getting my socks soggy and my hair straggly and laugh, laugh at the pouring rain washing down in sheets, because it is life. This class - this class, The Biology and Natural History of Jasper Ridge (BIO 105A/B), not only revived my faith in the education system, but it left me with a bank of knowledge that I draw on every day. I notice every time I see a madrone tree, with its copper red bark, peeling gently, cool to the touch. I notice every time I see poison oak edging trails, it getting as close as possible to contact without being trodden on. I notice every time I see a Western Fence lizard dart into the undergrowth, silently thanking it for the layer of protection it gives us against Lyme disease. The moments of appreciation transport me back to the lush greenery of the landscape, where I can hear the rushing water over Searsville dam. I think of the soft carpet of redwood debris muting my footsteps as I walk, marvelling as the trunks extend up and up forever, trying to comprehend their age in relation to mine. I feel small, but not insignificant. I think about this feeling, and how it is familiar, familiar to the feeling of being surrounded by tall glass buildings and people, moving around you like the ants at Jasper Ridge, getting to where they know they need to be, without any concern for me at all. Familiar, but different.
It was not that I was suddenly discovering what a tree was, I had had that epiphany in year three[2], but that I was being shown the importance of it. The feelings and appreciations that came with accepting a pause in the walk, that came with observance. Further, that the trees, the greenery don’t just accept our, my, appreciation but deserve it, and deserve more. And we deserve more in return. What ought to have been a reciprocal relationship, I’d just realised, was unrequited.
But, although Jasper Ridge was an escape from campus, untouched it was not. There were the obvious signs, great big chunks of concrete sitting in the middle of a river creating a dam and sand and a whole lot of trouble for a particular endangered fish for one - and the plastic tubing signs of experiments, cages around saplings, ribbons tied in trees. Beyond that, older still, as we learnt of the difference between Soap Plant and Star Lily (both green, both 5-leaf clumps along the dirt path, one harmless, useful, necessary; the other a deadly reminder that foliage cannot easily be taken advantage of), we found the deep bowls carved into huge rocks, acorn grinding stations of the Muwekma Ohlone. I am shown. That this nature, this sun, these trees, not ours (never ours), but ours. There has never been a place on this earth untouched by people. It is a lie. It would also be a lie to say that humans and the wild should coexist as they always have - we are past that point, bulldozers and aeroplanes stacked with dollar bills past that point and there is no going back. There is something more to this story. Something important, something we ought to remember and oughtn’t let others forget. That we know. That we have always known. That there is something in the way the sun filters through leaves like rain drips through the clouds and sinks into skin browning it like milk swirling into tea, darkness depending on the person, personal preference, how much they take. Something that now we have science to prove with facts and figures and long wordy papers that nobody enjoys reading but we are shown, ha, that we are and always have been right. That the outside is important. And it always has been. And we have always been intimately familiar with it.
When I returned to London that summer, it was hot, and I spent the long, melting days on the grass of parks with my friends, sunglasses on head, glass of Pimms[3] in hand. Nothing unusual there, the grass itched my legs as always, the pigeons’ beady eyes darted around for crumbs sent flying with careless hands. But I noticed the way the sun fell onto us a touch differently. I noticed the shape of the leaves on the trees, mostly oaks (small, tough), but some pines (long, sharp), a few chestnuts (broad, bright). For the first time, I wondered about the names given to the bright, brilliant flowers lining the path, the ones with the frilly petals that drooped ever so slightly until perked up by the wind. Crown Imperials. Fitting. The roads on the other side of the fence gave birth to wafts of petrol and smog that tainted the air, honking horns provided a bass to the shrill birdsong. I held the two places as so distinct, but here they were, together.
I’m sure you have experienced the decrease in rumination a green space brings, the relaxation that comes with it. The experience of listening to the wind flutter through branches, carrying with it the soft light of the sun, filtering it ever so gently. That first breath of crisp, clear air, filling your lungs. Feeling the tension of a long day, or an argument with your sister over something stupid, leave your body with the exhale. This experience of relaxation exists in the boundless fields of the Peak District, it exists in the perfectly manicured flower beds of Hyde Park, it exists in the tangle of trees at the edge of the park at the end of the street. It exists even there yet it is hidden and forced away from us, and we are distracted by bright fluorescent lights and glass and tall beams, and while we are distracted, it shrinks away. It shrinks away and is stepped upon, shoved into a dark corner where we can’t see it.
This may seem unimportant to you, arbitrary even. Just go outside. What’s the big deal?
And therein lies the issue. My head is filled with Things Labelled Important. Good grades, good health, spending time with family and friends. Good grades, being the most important, becomes a bully, pushing me around all day until I fall asleep. I have never been told, allowed to, value calm. Doing nothing. Breathing fresh air. I get anxious when I’m not doing anything because being unproductive is Bad. This. Is utter crap. It sucks, and I am unhappy. The presence of green space in my life is a reminder, for me. I allow myself to walk to class, feel the breeze on my face, lifting worries weighing down on my shoulders like the air under wings. And maybe, I can avoid my sentence of a young death by stress an extra few days. This was shown to me at times when I was allowed to breathe. I realised that in these spaces, I was allowed to feel content. That when I allow myself to slow down, to enjoy, just being, just walking, just breathing - my heart rate drops. I am given back a piece of myself I was not aware I was missing. Now, I bring that with me, and I notice.
We do not all have this luxury. In dense cities, parks are small, pavement is omnipresent. Over half the population and counting lives in urban environments, and green space is few and far between. As in most situations of scarcity, the question of who gets to benefit is ever present. Hyde park, one of the biggest green spaces in the city, was originally a private hunting ground. Today, while it is open to the public, it represents a rare landscape, since austerity has squeezed council budgets in the outskirts to a point of neglect. It is the park I go to the most often, because it is the most beautiful. But it also takes me an hour and £3.90 to get there. Since 2014, 92% of park managers had their budgets cut, many by 40%, some even more. In 2017, the Heritage Lottery Fund closed its Parks for People funding programme, which took urban parks and transformed them into community spaces (The Guardian, 2017). The park at the end of my road is small and a bit run down, but for anyone that doesn’t have the time to spare, or the money for the tube, that is all we have. Soon we won’t even have that.
In a city where ‘natural’ would be the last word used to describe it, access to these cracks of greenery are often taken for granted, as they seem so distant from the rolling hills of the countryside. By implying that they are so different, by romanticising the expanses of ‘untouched’ land, by scoffing at parks where the path is overgrown and the grass is uncut, by ignoring the call of the leaves rustling in the wind, we deny ourselves the ability to experience nature on a personal level. We deny ourselves the freedom to experience it, be that in our own back gardens, the local playground, or simply a walk to the bus stop, and deny ourselves the benefits that we deserve. We stay inside all day hacking away at our keyboards, blue light glowing until the early hours of the morning, and that is normal. To not go outside is normal. To not feel the cool air outside that maybe isn’t quite fresh but more fresh than the still air of your bedroom is normal. That to go on a picnic, to go on a walk, to the beach, is An Event. It is a pressure. And we give in. I give in. Why is it not built into our days to take a morning stroll, an evening jog? Afternoon tea in the garden? To destress, unwind, just be?
I think about whether I would have had this realisation had I not taken that class at Jasper Ridge, felt the wind on my face as I stood atop the dam and felt the power of the water beneath me. Maybe. Maybe I would have taken a different class. Or maybe it would have been down to that moment in the park, where the wind would carry my interest into the branches of the trees and I would have to look more closely at them rather than my sandal-tanned feet. I think about how it would have been to have that class in high school, to have an environment where the outside is not simply a space to pass through but a space to sit in, and contemplate and enjoy and learn in.
We need nature. But perhaps most importantly, we need a new definition of nature. It is our birthright. Not just fields and fields of green with forests and bubbling streams that smell faintly like egg, although those are nice, but the dissolving of the harsh line between that and the city. We need urban gardens filled with the sickly sweet smell of nectar, trees hanging with plump fruit to pick on the way to school. Long grass to tickle our knees, jars filled with beetles we catch in the garden. It is there, but we need to name it. Look at it. Stand in front of it and go, this – this is lovely. And in this need in this new definition expanded to include those trees that don’t quite fit anywhere else, is abundance. We need abundance. There is no mutual exclusivity here. There is a peace between knowing what we have, appreciating it, holding it tenderly in our grasp, and wanting more. Because as nice as we have it, we are greedy for more, not in the way of kings over gold but of desert plants over water, each drop bringing with it the awesome potential of life. Because yes the countryside is nice but we shouldn’t have to go so far. This is a privilege and it is one we deserve.
I think back to my mother in her hometown, surrounded by broad leaves that could easily act as umbrellas, and the soft grass cushioning her feet as she breaks onto the sand, dust puffing up as each foot hits the ground. I think to her now, high heels click clacking on hard floors, lipsticked mouth frowning at the rain. The otherness, the huge chasm between urban and rural, whether it is constructed, or we construct it ourselves, is there. Yet having a garden was one of my mother's greatest wants. We have one now, neatly trimmed lawn, lavender boxes up to the door.
When we were young, my brother scoured our garden every day; a tiny patch of land behind our house, a cherry tree growing defiantly in the pitiful soil, fruit too bitter to eat, the growl and rumble of cars down the road just metres away, ever present. His bedside drawer was heavy with the weight of the perfect prize - stones from his archeological digs. He would crawl around in the flowerbeds, dirt edging his cuticles as he gathered, content as ladybirds landed on his back and beetles flitted around his ankles. My mother sighed as she helped him clean them, washed and ready for preservation in the safe, his drawer.
I wish we had a bigger garden. Where we could all play outside, have family barbeques...
But even in our small scrap of grass behind our city home, my brother found his stones, my sister learned how to ride a bike, I learnt how to do a handstand. And we laughed, because we were outside and the breeze hit our soft cheeks and we were happy. I sit on the ground outside, as I write this, in the unforgiving Spring heat of California, regretting my choice of a black t-shirt, and I think about all the time I spend crunched over my desk writing essays and hacking at my keyboard for school, even chatting to friends and watching TV. A butterfly flies too close to my arm and I wave it away (butterflies pretend to be nice because of their beauty but it's a trick. They're bugs too). It lands on the ground, flaps its wings slowly. And that's all it is. We need more of this.
References:
Letters, The Guardian, In Austerity Britain, People Need Parks, 25 Dec 2017, accessed 7 June 2019. <https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2017/dec/25/in-austerity-britain-people-need-parks>
[1] Family and expectations, among other things, beyond the narrative of this essay
[2] Third grade
[3] Popular British drink enjoyed in the summer
Seven Dials Roundabout, London.
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