Behind the Shine
Aspen trees bow at the base. Almost every single trunk, whether small enough to make a fist around or way too big to encircle even with two fully outstretched hands, has a curve in its trunk that reveals its try. It’s hard to find one of these iconic white main stems that is chopstick straight from the ground to the clouds. And yet, when looked at from a distance, Aspens appear as if a plumb line has been used to plot their path.
These stubborn beauties grow erect despite the odds against them. They chase the light. They find a way.
Aspen Lower Trunks by Vitya_Maly
The J-shape of an Aspen’s lower trunk, referred to by foresters as a “pistol butt,” forms as a response to the elements in which it grows. Most Aspens propagate on mountain slopes in soil that is ever-changing. They react to wind, they compete for sun, they continually search for footing as the ground around them creeps. Then as summer gives way to winter, they do what they were put on the side of the mountain to do.
They shine.
With an explosion of neon grandeur, they grab us by the shoulders and don’t let us look away. We stare in amazement at their coin-shaped leaves that jingle in the breeze. We gasp as they glow in stark contrast to the deep-green pines that provide the backdrop for their show. Yet when I walk among them, I cannot help but notice the scars that mark their journey to become.
What’s on display is grounded by the proof of adaptation. The need to zig and zag a bit. I’m reminded that the path to prominence leaves a curvy, imperfect mark.
We look, sometimes, at professional athletes who make the hard seem easy while failing to recognize the grueling hours of work put in behind the scenes. When Tiger Woods swings a golf club or Roger Federer slices a volley or Caitlin Clark nails a three-pointer from 40 feet away, we’re in awe. The product moves us. When we listen to musicians play and singers sing, when we look at art or read eloquent poetry, we are so often blown-away by the spectacle. And the product is wonder-worthy. However, the rugged road it took to get there is as well. What if we saved some of our result reverence and dedicated it to the grind?
We rarely see the balls hit day after day from dawn ‘til dusk and back again. Or the shots taken over and over inside an empty gym until the shooter’s index finger bleeds. Occasionally, an accomplished athlete’s regime gets recounted publicly, but it’s impossible to feel the breadth of it through a keyhole peek. We don’t often get a glimpse of canvases trashed or papers crumpled. We aren’t privy to Kenny G running through his scales or Taylor Swift on the treadmill delivering her lyrics full throated in full stride. We just see the outcome. We just see the wow.
But behind every achievement lies a journey that hooks and crooks. The evidential marks of morphing are only visible up close.
From afar, Aspens shine as if backlit across the side of the mountain. Sometimes they appear as erratic clusters, like a string of outdoor lights sort of piled and sort of haphazardly strung. In other spots they cut a luminous swath through the forest face, flowing like ribbons sewn on purpose to give the mountainside design. We gasp because their splendor swallows all our words.
But the real jaw-dropper is what’s required to get there.
Here’s to stubborn, pliable doggedness that will not be denied. Glory depends on you.