Last Sunday was epic.
In the morning, I took myself to see The Odyssey instead of going to church. I’m not proud, but our choir is on summer hiatus, so I wasn’t letting anybody down but myself. And maybe God – though I’m guessing He gave an almighty shrug and said, “Oh, it’s her. Could be worse.”
I have long acknowledged that I’m religious about movies – again, not proud, just honest – so going on Sunday morning made a certain kind of sense. And in keeping with that theme… for all the online carping about Christopher Nolan’s “woke casting” – and accusations that the director has attempted to “subvert Western culture” – I can’t remember the last time I saw a film that demonstrated such worshipful reverence for said culture.
I don’t want to drop any spoilers, so I’ll just say this: It seems to me the liberties Nolan has taken with the original story – which are few, but crucial – serve to interpret a pagan myth through a Christian ethos. What could be more Western? Seriously, if you get all worked up every time a contemporary artist reimagines ancient source material, you’re gonna be all worked up, all the time. Even Dante reimagined the character of Odysseus… right into the Eighth Circle of Hell. Is The Divine Comedy anti-Western? Don’t make me laugh.
For those who have no idea what I’m talking about – again, I’m avoiding spoilers – let’s just say that Nolan’s Odysseus “reflects” in a way that Homer’s Odysseus does not . . . to the best of my recollection, that is. While avoiding contemporary psychobabble – praise God! – Nolan’s Odysseus (Matt Damon) reflects on his guilt in the Trojan war, on the cyclical nature of violence, and on what happens to civilizations when we break “the fragile bonds between men.”
It’s a timeless tale that feels quite timely. Which is the nature of timelessness, I suppose.
Later Sunday afternoon, home from the movies, I was pondering the fragility of civilization – and chiseling away at it by scrolling on Facebook – when I came upon some photos that shocked me to my core. Seldom am I compelled to put my clothes back on once I’m in my pj’s – especially on a Sunday afternoon – but that’s exactly what I did.
Because what I saw in those shocking photos, I had to see for myself. In real life.
Fortunately, I live only a couple of miles from Witness Tree Park. Unfortunately, what I had to see for myself, in real life, was the Witness Tree split damn near in half.
Sometime in the night – maybe under the weight of its own grandeur? – just about half that magnificent Live Oak had broken from the other half and tumbled to the ground. Nobody seems to have seen it happen. I’m surprised the whole town didn’t shake. Then again, those branches were so widespread, and some bending so near the ground, it could have been a gentle landing, more like lying down than falling. I like to think that’s how it happened.
Word has it the Witness Tree is at least 300 years old, though nobody knows for sure. The not-knowing is part of its captivating allure.
What we do know is that the Beaufort Historical Society gave the Pat Conroy Literary Center an iconic photograph of the tree – which is right across the street from the Center – taken in 1864, when the area served as parade grounds for United States Colored Troops (known as the Connecticut 29 or USCT). That photo secured the tree’s designation as a genuine “Witness Tree.” Today, Witness Tree Park is an educational project of the Conroy Center, dedicated to preserving the tree and highlighting its historical significance.
As of press time, the folks at the Conroy Center weren’t sure what would happen to the wounded Witness Tree. Arborists had examined it, but a prognosis had not yet been rendered. Board member Marly Rusoff, who was instrumental in establishing the park, assured me that no matter what happens, the story of Beaufort’s Witness Tree is not over.
“I have a deep sense of peace about this new chapter in the life of the Witness Tree,” she told me. “This tree has had the love of school children and adults and its history has received an amazing amount of recognition the past two years, after many decades of abuse. I can’t help but feel that this Live Oak tree which we all loved so much has now loved us back. None of the improvements we made – our many benches, signs, the four corners crafted by Gullah artisans out of local oyster shells, nor the work of the women volunteers of the Beaufort Garden Club – were damaged in the fall of the massive branches. Almost a miracle! The story is not over. I am excited by the next yet to be written chapter!”
If the Witness Tree had to split, it really did do it right. The “better half” that remains still provides ample shade over the memorial benches, where so many have enjoyed poetry readings, social gatherings, school field trips, and – in my case, anyway – quiet moments alone. (There is a bench in that park that reads, “in memory of Jeff Evans, loving husband, father, and friend of the arts.” I like to go and sit.)
I have high hopes that the remaining half of the Witness Tree can be saved, but even it can’t be, as Marly says, its story will go on. Already, woodworkers and sculptors have approached the Center, hoping to make art from the fallen limbs; possibly bowls, maybe even pencils, to sell at the Center, to help support its mission of education through literature.
So, this very old tree with deep roots and broad limbs, that has watched over Beaufort and nurtured her natural environment for centuries, will continue to do so, though maybe in new and different forms. That’s how trees work, and energy, and even epics. (You knew I’d bring it back around!)
Stories become legends, which morph into myths, then long poems, then movies that get people talking about the stories all over again. A tree in South Carolina provides shade for black Union soldiers, then for poetry readings, then is crafted into pencils that, in turn, write poems about black Union soldiers. New vision sheds light on old truths and old truths illuminate new visions. Civilizations rise and fall and rise again.
So it has been, and so it will be. Forever and ever. Amen.
(God willin’ and the creek don’t rise, of course.)
