[Garden Memories: XXIII]
Several Japanese Maples bordered the back of our house. These small, elegant maples were confusing to a child. What’s the point of a tree that can’t be climbed, bears no fruit, and lacks in shading ability? Better yet, why grow a maple that can’t be tapped for Saturday morning pancakes?
As I aged, the answers came. Not directly to my questions, as though I met a tree apologist (also known as a nursery employee) that argued for the virtue of this ancient eastern foliage. No, the answers came as I learned to see.
To see value beyond utility.
To see purpose behind human service.
Perhaps now, and only now, can I see a Japanese Maple’s essence. They exude wisdom, grounding, and gentleness. With no effort but that of mere being, they are stunning in the stories their twisted branches can tell. They cannot bear weight like many of their relatives, but they reach far enough to offer comfort—to the eyes and the heart. To fix or train one by pruning seems an act of dishonor. They are the grandmothers of the garden.
