The Redwood Grove

This entry is adapted from a journal assignment I wrote for my Sense of Place in American Art class. The teacher didn't collect it, so I thought I'd post my ideas here.

The sign in front of me reads, “Why is this tree from China planted in the Redwood Grove?” Why indeed? This tree is an exotic species, and though it resembles its North American brothers it does not belong here. But a similar question can be posed of the Coast Redwoods: “Why are these trees from coastal mountain ranges planted here in the Central Valley?” They too are exotics, as are many of the plants that grow in the Arboretum.

Nature is wild. True nature simply belongs—it does not exist for the benefit of passersby, it exists for its own purpose in a cohesive web of life. Without man none of these redwoods, oriental nor occidental, would be here.

But we shouldn't ignore these trees simply because they shouldn't be here. They are here. These leaves rustle in the breeze. The piney smell reaches my nostrils with a fresh intensity. Trunks sway to and fro. The slim conical shapes of the coast redwoods draws the eye skywards, bidding the viewer to ignore the land underneath.

The gravelly path in front of me bears a steady flow of crunching tennis shoes. Not far behind me is a paved roadway with cars occasionally rumbling by. The stagnant Arboretum water in front of me is green.