Yesterday I planted a Japanese Maple.  Highly motivated to find the right tree I traveled for an hour in afternoon traffic, north to Countryside Nursery in Crystal Lake.  They had a variety called Crimson Queen, for which I happily paid the purchase price.  I transported the small tree home, another hour of stop and go traffic, along Randall Road.  Randall Road is not for the faint of heart. — six lanes wide of asphalt, a corridor of corporate retail on either side.  Miles passed and I could have counted the stoplights….

I planted the tree to the left of the grey, weathered, mottled Buddha statue which is placed atop the embankment under two tall blue spruce conifers.  The Buddha overlooks the lawn and the deck at the back of the house.

I dug the hole in the dry dirt, piled the dark soil in the wheel barrow.  Next I unwrapped the protective covering thoughtfully added by the Nursery employee to free the spread branches.  With a drywall knife, I cut the vertical sides of the 5 gallon bucket and lifted the root-ball from the container.  After a session of trial and error rotating the tree to judge the best angle of placement relative to the sitting Buddha, and the twin spruce trees, I rested the maple into the hole.  The gap between the root-ball and opening was then filled with loose dirt.  After leveling and gently packing the loose soil, — I generously watered the young tree.

I deliberately chose the Crimson Queen variety of Japanese Maple.  My reasoning/intuition is that with pruning, watering in drought, wrapping to protect from severe winter frost — the tree will grow with branches extending horizontally to shelter the impassive image of the Buddha.  The tree will be a living witness to our children, grand children, and friends that life itself has value.  No justification is needed.  An example is called for, not an argument.

The Buddha has seen many seasons.  I expect that the Maple will as well.

The Crimson Queen Maple is prized for it’s fiery translucence when the leaves are illuminated by the sun.

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The chief problems of any artist,
as of any man or woman,
are the problems of the normal
and that he/she needs,
in order to solve them, —
everything
that the imagination
has to give.

–excerpt, essay Imagination as Value
By Wallace Stevens p. 156