When a Tree Falls…
Have you heard that thought exercise about the tree falling in the woods? If no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Or rather, does it even matter to anyone but the tree? I was writing in my journal this morning when the thought crossed my mind…
That DAMNED tree! What business does it have falling and hurting my brain with existential angst?
It’s not that bad, though. I’m pretty well grounded since my Near-Death Experience. I know I matter. I have purpose.
“So why all this business about a tree falling, Dave?”
I considered it as a metaphor, that’s why. As a writer, I’m the tree. My writing is the falling. If there’s no one to read what I write, does it make a sound? Does it matter?
I can make the argument that it does still matter. To me, it matters. An artist creates to express. To send a message that others hopefully grok. Does an artist care about making a dime from their artwork? I think some artists would say yes, it matters if one can feed, shelter, and clothe themselves with the profits from their art.
I know a good many artists who never make money from their art. That’s not the purpose. The purpose is first and foremost, for them, to soothe their soul and aid with depression. Art as therapy. And it works: I confess that I’d write even if I never made a nickel from it.
Writing grounds me. It helps me make sense of the world. But there is an unexpected downside to this literary life I lead, or rather, it’s fairer to say that my disability has created in me a shut-in. Call it undiagnosed or untreated PTSD from the accident, but I’m reticent to go out into the world.
Just yesterday, I was feeling sorry for myself. It was a moment of weakness, and I give myself permission to feel that way. I go with what’s honest. Anyway, I was throwing myself a grand pity party, missing my able body terribly. If I could just go for a run at will like I used to…
But that’s not to be. I’m a pragmatist. I am this way, and that’s it, so I’ll make the most of it that I can.
It seems I’ve wandered into the weeds. Let’s get back to whether or not I care if anyone hears the “tree” of my words.
No, I don’t give a fuck.
It’s not that I don’t want readers. I do. I want to thrive as an artist and continue to support myself through my writing and copy editing. Words are what I love, even though I know there are many whose craft is more refined.
So what? I’m not them. They’re not me. Stating the obvious, I know, but I’m here to tell you that you lose out every time you compare yourself.
We are all unique, with our own gifts and stories to tell. Those stories are the trees falling, the hammers of expression in the forests of need. The need to get what is inside, outside. The need to read and share and know that we are not alone. There are others walking similar paths.
The tree cares and hears itself. That’s all that really matters. The rest is gravy.
