But once we did, we realized the problem was not our seeds or our soil. Our problem was our trees. Our small lot has four enormous trees, one of which is an historic sycamore with branches reaching out to shade the entirety of our backyard, and our neighbors' yards on either side. Our yard is so shady that the simple act of complicated photosynthesis is impossible for our desperately darkened lawn.
It quickly became obvious that the only way we would ever grow the lush lawn of our dreams was to trim back our trees. And we didn't just want some run-of-the-mill tree trimmer. We wanted an expert. The Lorax, if he made house calls. So I found a certified arborist to come assess the trees and guide us on how to get some sun on the desperate blades below.
He pulled into our driveway, stepped out of his car and gasped at the site of our trees. Two beautiful, enormous pin oaks in the front. And in the back, a wickedly twisted and deviant elm, and the massive sycamore. He went from tree to tree, placing his face close to the bark, squatting down around the roots, assessing the health of the leaves.
"Well," he finally said, "You have two options."
"Oh?" I asked.
"Yep. The trees or the lawn."
He went on to show me that on a lot our size, the trees and grass are competing for resources. He pointed to moss growing at the base of one of the oaks. This indicated that the trees were being overwatered with our attempt to hydrate the grass. And while trimming back the trees would allow more sunlight in, which could help the grass grow, we could never truly have a lush lawn unless we chopped the trees down completely.
"So," he said, "Trees or lawn?"
Trees seemed like the obvious choice. The trees came first. They will far outlive us. The trees provide oxygen, shade, a habitat for squirrels and birds, and have--as it were--far deeper roots.
Lawns are, honestly, a waste of water. They are transient. Not truly a priority. And yet, grass provides curb appeal. A place to lay with my children on a warm day. A soft landing for birds. It provides proof we care about our property. And it keeps the soil in place. Soil, which nurtures the trees.
The arborist stood there awaiting my answer. He needed to know whether to take substantial branches from our beautiful canopies, or whether to trim them gently, tenderly and conservatively. He needed to know if I was person who would side with the trees. Or opt for the American dream.
In the moment, I chose the trees.
As he looped a harness around his waist and powered the chainsaw, I got in my car to leave for work.
Three months ago I started my new position, as a faculty member at the university. In the short time I've been there my life has dramatically changed in ways that might only appear subtle to others. On paper, perhaps my life seems to be the same. I work for the same university. My commute is the same. I still have the same coworkers. I still park in the same spot and still pee in the same stall.
For seven years of my professional life I was a student, working in a dark basement office I shared with two other students. My mission in life was to take classes and research. My ultimate goal—graduation—was always so far away it was easier not to think long-range. So day in and day out I worked in small, achievable goals, like a term paper here, a research project there. Semester by semester, slowly chipping away at one large goal. My life at that time moved so slowly it sometimes felt as if it had stopped.
This isn't to say those seven years weren't fun and challenging, or that the people I shared a desk with for that long aren't now among some of my closest friends. Because it was, and they are.
But until I stepped out and up into my new position, I had no idea how I had grown to feel about myself. Or my life. Because it’s only in retrospect that I can see so clearly how isolating and lonely graduate school and researching were.
I enjoyed the courses and seeing classmates. I enjoyed conducting research out in the community. But I spent a majority of my days, my weeks, and the last seven years, in a basement office studying, analyzing data and writing. Or at home taking care of my young children, while I studied, analyzed and wrote during their naps. And while my children are certainly my life’s work, they aren't the greatest conversationalists.
This shift in my life and in myself was so subtle I was unable to see the restrictions I felt. While I enjoyed my work, appreciated my growing knowledge, and valued my time with my small children, I found myself desperate for more human interaction. More conversation. More connection.
And so while I worked to cultivate my professional career, I unknowingly longed for more sociability. I found myself planning more parties, initiating more happy hours, scheduling more lunches. I responded immediately to text messages, emails, and Facebook. I could drop anything to be at the side of a friend or classmate or a family member. I never caught on I was able to do this as a direct result of my student status. But I truly enjoyed my ability to give fully to my friends and family.
But when my job began, three months ago, I felt the sun finally shining on my face. I shifted over night from an anonymous student worker in a basement, to a visible faculty member with privileges. The graduate program I'm tasked with running and growing in Tulsa has, itself, suffered from sitting in the shade for far too long. My position was created for the sole purpose of breathing new life into the program, cutting back the branches and facing it toward the sun. Every day I carefully nurture the program and I'm faced with even more ecological choices. In one specific instance, part of my task is to grow the program while maintaining its reputable rigor. But often those two tasks are competing for resources. Growing a program is easy if we remove the rigor. Adding to the rigor shrinks the pool of those willing to apply. How do I choose between the lawn and the trees?
But then, the choice isn’t any clearer in my own life. Instantly my professional world became a breeding ground for discussions, debates, meetings, presentations, recruiting and phone calls. I spend hours a day meeting with prospective students, advising current students, talking to administrators about program needs, answering calls about the program, responding to student emails, talking with faculty to set course schedules, presenting research, meeting with public affairs to promote our program or talking with community leaders about partnerships. And this is all before I get to class in which I stand in front of a room full of students talking for three solid hours.
For an extrovert, my job is a dream.
And yet I find myself, at the end of a long day, wishing there were time for happy hours. Realizing the days are too packed to schedule lunches. My energy is too zapped to plan a party. And my phone is full of unread messages.
While I'm finding myself immensely satisfied, my skills better used and my personality more adequately leveraged, I miss the ways in which I once tapped into that need for interaction. Connection. Community.
My life as a student in the shady basement was a selfish and introspective time. I only had to worry about my research, my goals and myself. My life as a professor, warmed by the sun, is about many things bigger than me. No longer am I just thinking about my deadlines, my classwork, my graduation date. Now I’m thinking about the students, the program, the university and the community. Once the sun shines on you, you have no choice but to spread and grow.
When I returned home the day I met with the arborist, I found our trees to be delicately and beautifully trimmed. Their canopies were still full and lustrous, but they no longer drooped unnecessarily low to the ground, or hung heavily over the fence. Standing in the middle of my yard I could see, for the first time, the sun dapple subtly across my shoes.
That evening, with a few limbs gone and our hope rising, my husband and I worked to aerate the soil. We delicately and equally spread the seeds we'd spent time researching. We raked over the seedlings and watered the ground until the seeds had a cushiony bed of soft soil in which to lie. Each morning that followed, I’d go outside and walk around the yard, inspecting the seeds as they nestled into the fertile soil. I’d monitor the sun at various points in the day to ensure it could poke through the thick branches above. We water in careful intervals so as to give the yard enough, but not to drown the trees. We are mindful of the delicate balance.
And finally this morning, I saw--in the dead center of a patch of dirt we've never been able to cultivate--a tiny sprig of grass emerge triumphantly out from beneath the soil. I’m trying to temper my expectations. I remind myself that one sprig of grass in a barren spot doesn’t mean a Master’s quality golf course will follow close behind. But at the very least, perhaps it is proof that the trees and grass might both be able to pull from the same resources available to them in the confines of our small yard.
And honestly, deep down, I think I truly believe one day the grass will sprout and thicken and thrive. Perhaps it will be as lush and impressive as a forest.
But I won't be able to see it for all the trees.
