In Vancouver, we stopped to look around near a one thousand year old tree in Stanley Park. Visitors could walk beneath the hollowed area at the base of the historic tree. I watched in horror as a grown man, with a woman and child in tow, took out a knife and began to carve into the underbelly of the tree. I said nothing.
A few weeks later, my silence haunts me. When I was young, I had no problem calling out adults decades older for acting unfairly or inappropriately. I can think of a handful of occasions without effort. Why is it that I find myself so timid, now that they're my peers?
Rather than confront the man, I walked away so I wouldn't have to witness the abuse.
Complicit.
Was I afraid of how he would react? Maybe. But I think maybe the root of my inaction is more despair than fear. So I somehow prevent the man from desecrating the tree... There are a hundred ancient trees lining this road that his blade could find as easily. Somewhere along the way I guess I started believing that people can't be changed. That putting out fires exhausts the water-thrower and doesn't save the forest.
So maybe my saying something or simply asking him what he was doing might have planted a seed of thought or understanding in him that would eventually lend itself to seeing the world differently.
So what.
By 2050 the global climate will inevitably have increased by a degree despite our half-ass efforts.
Why should I write a poem if I am going to die?
And yet, tonight on my walk,
I carried some weight
of silent complicity.
