At a time when we are more deeply embedded in the digital ecosystem than ever before, the Harvard University seminar called “Tree” should be a required course for everyone.
The classes aren't held in lecture halls, and you don't have to plow through thick botany textbooks full of Latin. And despite his impeccable credentials, the professor of record, evolutionary biologist William Friedman, isn't exactly one to give students weekly installments, at least not in the traditional format.
The tree itself can tell you a lot.
A tree may not have advanced degrees or even neurons to give it a voice, but its genius as an educator would be difficult for even the most qualified humans to surpass.
At this seminar, it's as if Dr. Friedman, director of the university's Arnold Arboretum (a public garden that studies and shares one of the world's most important collections of woody plants), plays the role of provocateur rather than professor. The course curriculum he created for a group of about a dozen first-year students in 2020 is aimed at encouraging deep connections.
Several excerpts from the syllabus similarly suggest the seminar's central promise.
“Imagine spending a semester trying to connect two living things: a human (you) and a tree (not you).”
“The goal of this freshman seminar is to begin a personal and lifelong connection with the Other, the vast and diverse species with whom we share our planet.”
“This class wasn't about the science of trees, it wasn't about the aesthetics of trees,” Dr. Friedman (who everyone calls Ned, including his students) said of his concept.
“We live in this world where there's murder, and I don't mean to be too extreme, but we're killing other life forms and driving entire species to extinction. We're doing this quite casually. And I think what was important for me was kind of acknowledging that world and then asking how can we connect more with that world and make us act differently and feel more passionate about biodiversity.”
He said he tried to offer students a way to disconnect from the digital world and immerse themselves in nature instead, “but also to think about what it means to have empathy, to actually love something that can't love you back.”
A bold proposal.
Which tree among the 16,000 trees will be yours?
The first class walks together through the 281-acre arboretum. From among the 16,000 woody plants that populate this vast tree museum, each student must choose one tree partner for the upcoming semester. That is the tree that will be the subject of your weekly assignments and final project.
Dr. Friedman hopes these selected trees will help change what each student sees outdoors – no longer a green wall, but an individual. The syllabus has tips on how to get there.
“Acceptance of other living things must begin with a commitment not to let them become mere extensions of other living things.” your However, it's not all restraint: “Allow yourself to be absorbed while observing your tree,” says another piece of guidance.
For some students, height is a deciding factor. It's no wonder that the 80-year-old giant Dawn Sequoia (Metasequoia glyptostroboides), with its carved, grooved trunk, is the most chosen tree each year. Others look for trees with the same cultural heritage, i.e. species with Korean or Chinese ancestry. Arnold has one of the finest collections of Asian temperate trees in the world.
“Every year, there are always trees that I wouldn't have thought of picking, but there's always a reason behind that choice,” Dr. Friedman says.
Last fall, Jacob Kiffle was drawn to variegated lilacs (Syringa x diversifolia). The “vast structure of the branches” and “the way the leaves formed umbrellas” suggested it was a “little refuge,” he said, recalling exploring the arboretum during the second week of classes “looking for a tree to call my own.”
“I wanted to study trees that feel tangible and caring, trees that provide a home away from home, trees that personify and become friends,” he added. While it may not be the prettiest tree in the collection, “it's the one I wanted to spend time with,” he admitted.
Stella Rosa Guest, who grew up in Cambridge, Massachusetts, was drawn to the autumn leaves of the Japanese maple (Acer palmatum Atropurpureum), and even though she moved frequently around the city after her parents separated, she said she always found herself in “a house with a Japanese maple in the garden.”
Inspired by her association with this particular person, she read centuries-old Japanese poems about this species, a traditional symbol of grace and beauty, and embarked on her own version of “momiji-gai” (or autumn leaf-picking) to welcome autumn. A tree that had been familiar for a long time became more and more intimate.
“I've been at university for three months now and I feel like I've made a lot of friends and connections,” she added. “But one of the main connections I've made is with trees. Honestly, I think I can probably tell you more about trees than I can tell you about my friends.”
“The funny thing is, they become obsessed with this tree during the semester and become obsessed with it,” Dr. Freedman said. He loves it when students tell him they hugged a tree or brought a friend instead of a moment shared on a pixelated screen.
From Lucretius to Carson McCullers
Like the trees chosen, the weekly reading assignments are diverse and include scientific papers on topics such as root system structure and function and fall foliage phenomena. Dr. Friedman takes his students to the university's botanical library to see a handwritten letter from Charles Darwin to Harvard botanist Asa Gray. The two men exchanged letters in the 1840s and 1850s, unraveling the mysteries of the evolution of plant migration between Asia and North America.
But there are also literary selections, including works by the ancient Roman poet Lucretius and contemporary voices, including pages from Robin Wall Kimmerer's “Braiding Sweetgrass'' and Richard Powers' “The Overstory.''
“Literature is brought in because it's not a science class,” Friedman said. “I think it's really a matter of the heart.”
Perhaps the reading closest to the heart of this seminar is Carson McCullers' short story “A Tree, a Rock, a Cloud,” first published in 1942.
In it, a young newsboy enters a cafe to buy coffee. A man bent over a beer mug in the corner called out to him. “I love you,” he says to the young man, and then goes on to explain how his heart opened to such spontaneity and the origins of what he calls his “science” of love.
Years ago, his wife left him for another man. And he recounted the years of struggle that followed until peace came through a revelation: letting go.
The man believed that it was too early, too soon, for him to take the first step in his life's journey of loving another person, as he had done for his wife.
“Son, do you know how love should begin?” he asked, then bent down and whispered a secret.
“Trees. Rocks. Clouds.”
“I can love anything,” he tells the boy. “I don't have to think about it anymore. I look at a street full of people and a beautiful light comes into me. I look at a bird in the sky. Or I meet a traveler on the road. Everything, son. And everyone. Strangers and loved ones. Do you understand what science like me means?”
Are you ready to pick a tree and start homeschooling?
