A lesson from children about etiology, phenomenology, epistemology, and learning ethics from nature.

Part One — Asking Questions About Autumn

The sun’s path appears to be bending south, adding a dull hue to summer’s bright skies. The last efforts at growth showcase the skills of plants not yet ready to die. The humidity vacates the air, replaced by a crisp breeze. Even the sun seems compelled to offer new ventures of color — bending light amongst increased clouds resulting in vibrant displays of reds, oranges, and the occasional purple on the horizon at the end of a now shortened day.

It is the one time of year those of us living in temperate climates take pride in our weather.

There is nothing quite comparable to the season called Autumn.

Outside of the pumpkin spice craze, there’s nothing I would get rid of about this season. I’ve lived in climates which escape winter’s cold and, if I’m honest, my soul felt empty without the season called Fall. The taste of a fresh Northern Spy apple picked in late October, the smell of a recently harvested field, and the increased attention we give to celebrating life as we sense the closing of a year and the onset of winter. This is my favorite season of the year.

I have yet to mention the most visible, striking, and physically awe-inspiring event of Autumn — something which my area of residence can boast about.

The animated alteration of the trees as their foliage abruptly changes from the assumed green which appeared as a constant throughout summer’s spell to a cascading cornucopia of deep, rich palettes.

Our culture loves this phenomenon. Folks take special vacations just to see it. There are travel guides revealing which routes to take at which week of the year to ensure you will catch changing foliage with as much quantity and quality as possible.

Why are we so mesmerized by such a strange process?

Most other plants end their year by quickly fading into a beige piece of compost.

But not trees.

Though we may assume such organic beauty which takes over a landscape in a matter of days, we ought to stop and wonder what is occurring before our eyes in such a curious manner. Both marvelous and mystifying, why don’t leaves suffer the same fate as most every other living plant as the year ends?

Can you imagine being alive fifty thousand years ago and seeing a horizon of trees alter from a robust green to various shades of red, yellow, and orange?

It is my assumption that you wouldn’t have been awestruck with beaming appreciation and tried to take a picture. I imagine, at best, you may be a bit confused. At worst, you may be terrified.

Today, we do not have to experience such uncertainty.

But the question is still worth asking.

Why do leaves change color?

The answer can deepen our appreciation of the physical world, but the answer may also provide existential insights to traversing such a strange, fascinating universe.

Philosophical treasures and practical guides await those who allow nature to be their teacher.

Part Two — Asking Questions About Everything

I’m going to assume that empirical philosophers through the ages were, at least, somewhat right — studying the physical world can inform our understanding of the metaphysical reality of existence, the big cosmological underpinnings of life, and the ethical suggestions for how live accordingly. If we were to ask Aristotle or Leonardo Da Vinci or Francis Bacon or the majority of human beings who never had their names marked in the literature of history the question of why leaves change color, I imagine they would offer a congruent response:

I don’t know. Let’s study it.

Welcome to science.

On the contrary, we could come up with abstract, mystical explanations which fairytale their way to folk remedies — the leaves change color because the trees are angry and are beckoning a cold front to deal with our human stubbornness. Or we could use our limited and often skewed human finitude to attempt more reasonable conclusions as to how the natural world is working.

I’m certain that humans have irrationally approached this question and invariably assumed some sort of deity is doing something odd, probably with another deity. Or that there is some magical, animated experience of the leaves imbuing their colors like a formal party gown and the leaves changing is their dance.

That’s all fine. If you arrive at any of those conclusions, you still have my respect. I just sense you may be missing an opportunity to see the world more clearly and, as a result, better live in it. The same approach occurs with sunsets. We talk about how we are witnessing artwork or, if it is a sunset we particularly like, it must be divine favor. Could it just be the bending of light waves through various particles in the atmosphere? And, if so, could that actually impose greater appreciation for the mystery of nature and a potential Divine cause of such an incredible process that we, with utmost gratitude, are able to witness?

If nothing else, I hope the attempt at this question about foliage forces us to consider the benefit of exploring the world around us. What I’ve previously described is technically called superstition — falsely attributing some cause to some effect. Yes, there are very overt acts of superstition — like if you put your right shoe on last, you will have a bad day. Most people would agree this is ridiculous. Yet, most human beings engage in a variety of superstitions — of making correlations to causes which are not fully accurate — pretty consistently throughout every day. Even the most rudimentary of decisions are often the result of assuming something which is not quite correct.

Again, this is fine. It’s not the end of the world. But why would you want to make that your prerogative? Why not at least attempt to understand causes and understand the world around you, even in your human finitude, to the best degree possible?

I can tell you what happens when we don’t.

First, we allow egocentrism — we bask in the assumption that the world revolves singularly around us and whatever conclusions we make must have something to do with our existence. We make a false correlation about the leaves changing color when we assume such a phenomenon has something to do with us as specific individuals. When we are so caught up in trying to make sense of something in an attempt to improve our individual lives, our lack of exploring fosters our continued egocentrism because we resort to answers that, certainly, must be about us and our perspective. Socially, an argument can be made that this is destructive for interdependent survival.

Second, in choosing not to explore the world more fully, we accept ignorance. Ancient Greek has a word for this: amathia, sometimes translated as “intelligent stupidity.” We assume that the information we have gleaned and the connections we have made are the correct and final answers in a matter. We may not even realize that the causes we’ve attributed to the effects are potentially superstitious and incomplete. With bountiful confidence, we suppose that the remainder of the world is required to agree with us or they are wrong; to which they must either be convinced to join our perspective or be done away with. Welcome to America in 2020.

Third, especially when we have assumed our limited perspective must certainly be the final word, when we assert a corner on the market of whatever item is being discussed, we elevate opinion as fact. This is not just a semantic problem. Our current cultural climate is rife with hijacked and misconstrued modes of reasoning. Even if you can pigeon hole apparent data to display the correctness of your opinion, it is still an opinion. And, guess what, that’s okay. Your opinion, your perspective, and how you have experienced the world, as well as the data you’ve collected anecdotally in the world, can be very helpful to the continued conversation.

But then you have the problem that there are many ways to engage in knowledge — called epistemology. You can use logos (rational reasoning), ethos (credibility and authority), or pathos (emotion) and they are all fair game. What I often see unfold is people pretending that ethos is logos (this person who studies this said this and it is therefore logic) or pathos as ethos (because I experienced this, I am an authority) or any confused mixture thereof. Reason is not the same as experience, but both are useful. Facts matter and so do experienced feelings (psychologically, your take on facts is prompted by your feelings). On the flip side, what is called “epistemological privilege” — that those who have experienced something have a particular authority to speak to that thing — is quite helpful in making decisions. It shouldn’t be the only method of deciding what is best, however.

Much of how we arrive at truth leads to an opinionated take on truth.

And, as finite human beings, a complete grasp of truth is always going to be quite difficult.

There is a reason why the span of Enlightenment philosophy is populated by the concern that certainty is elusive. Whether we think sensory, observation-based experience should be prioritized (empiricism) or reason-based argumentation in the form of logic should be prioritized (rationalism), both forms have a low ceiling. Your observations will always be incomplete and your attempt at pure rationalism will always be skewed by your experience.

You can use deductive reasoning — testing the evidence found in the world and using general observation to come to a particular conclusion; or inductive reasoning — using specific observation to come to general theories — and they both can be helpful while both failing to be perfect. Logos, ethos, pathos, rationalism, empiricism, reason, experience: they are all part of a process which, at least, reveals that none of us have any semblance of perfect knowledge. We ain’t working with all the information. And that’s okay. Just don’t pretend like you are — because you are likely making rash correlations between causes and effects which aren’t fully fleshed out.

Especially if you are elevating an incomplete conclusion or an opinionated effort at truth as the sole, finished, undeniable resolution to the content at hand, you are, at best, speculating.

Proclaiming finality with stern arrogance indicts that superstition is at play.

Don’t do it.

Fourth in this very incomplete list of implications concerning the approach to knowledge and perspective is that incorrect or incomplete connections will not lead to the best way of living. If you can only navigate the world to the extent that you understand the world you are navigating, then your knowledge is akin to a toolbox by which you therefore practice behaviors. We ought to be taking the time to explore the world as much as possible so that we can live more fully.

You start with your inability to fully conclude the truth, you accept that your version of reality is limited, and then you set toward curiosity so that you can live better. And then you keep doing it. Again and again and again.

Knowledge and ethics are dance partners.

Philosophy, science, psychology, history, your experience, the humanities — all of it is useful. Making pseudo-connections, attributing false or incomplete causality, and allowing ourselves to be unaware of the assumptions which plague an incomplete understanding of the world will only inhibit how you travel through life. We should be curious and we should look to incarnate what we learn. We should know the map of life and all its information as much as possible and we should be even more dedicated to practically traveling that map with literal behaviors until our dying breath.

My assumption is teleological, that there is an ethical goal which we ought to embody. As none of us have arrived at the full realization of this goal (as far as I know), we continue to try and close the gap between the ideal and our current lived reality by attaining as much understanding as we can and practically moving it from our head to our hands.

Being human is best pursued by asking questions about everything.

By understanding the world so as to best live in it.

Part Three — Asking Questions About Trees

Now that my rant on epistemology is finished (for now), we must get back to leaves changing color. Because this question is simply an opportunity to practice the aforementioned process.

Unfortunately for me, I was catapulted into this exploration by the minds which yearn for this epistemological process best — children. It is almost a cultural trope that children are the true etiologists (the science of causes and origins). We should take our cue from them, however, because the ensuing trajectory is helpful for all of us.

The concern of foliage, at least to my children, began with the purpose of trees.

“Why do trees exist?”

I really was hoping for the common, “Why is the sky blue?” I was prepared for that one. I took an entire course on the physics of light just so that I could one day properly respond to my children when they asked the inevitable question about the sky. But no, they go straight for the existence of trees.

Now, my incoherent mind jumps to rabbit trails which may not be useful. Metaphysically, cosmology (the science of origin and development of the universe) and teleology (the study of the purpose or end which explains something’s existence) are of utmost importance to this innocent question. One way to understand philosophy is the exploration of metaphysics (the first causes which explains being) and phenomenology (how your consciousness experiences being) along with physics (which is not the class you had to take in high school, but the study of the physical world), all of which lead to ethics (how you conduct your life in the world and which behaviors are seen as best). In the classical sense, that is what philosophy was intended to do — explore metaphysics and physics to better embody ethics.

I do believe that trees and their leaves can play a part in this.

However, my seven-year-old and five-year-old were not interested in that part.

You probably aren’t either.

Yet, even if we put the purpose of trees off to the side for now, we can begin moving into that territory by taking “physics” seriously. Again, science is not the devil. It is also not the climax of everything. It is part of the process.

Because understanding why trees exist naturally brought up how they grow.

Which naturally brought up their leaves.

To which we then had to embark on the curiosity of why said leaves are green.

Thus, my research began.

Turns out that science project I made up in third grade actually may have saved me some time. Who would have thought photosynthesis was actually useful information?

Photo. Synthesis. Putting together with light.

Now, I ask you dear reader, how would you explain to my children that the sun is what determines the actions of a tree and its leaves? Many metaphors ensued. They did not prevail.

We did arrive at the conclusion that, contrary to popular notion, temperature is not the primary causal agent in a tree’s development. The sun provides the energy to run the body of the tree. Factory, system, and other mechanical illustrations could suffice, but they came up short.

We were able to agree that each leaf is a response to the tree’s growth.

As the tree accumulates water and nutrients from the soil, CO2 from the air conglomerates in the tree to form glucose. Now the tree has food to survive. And this food travels through the tree similar to the human body. The sun’s light provides the energy to catalyze this process.

Glucose, or “tree food” in the context of my conversation, also leads to chlorophyll.

Do you know what color chlorophyll is?

Green.

Well, it creates a green hue when present.

Technicality aside, the leaves, resulting from the tree’s growth, are the primary senders and receivers of glucose which means that the resulting chlorophyll is most present in the leaves.

When leaves appear green, it is an indicator that the chemical process of creating food for the tree is happening. Green leaves mean the tree is alive and actively producing energy and substance.

I know we claimed the metaphysical and teleological notions of leaves changing color would be held at bay, but do you see how those questions still remain? Why does a tree exist? Why does it make food? Why does it tend towards survival? These are questions that will never be answered amongst observation and science. What we are discussing about the tree is mechanical, but the larger existence of the tree transcends the physical, mechanical processes we can take apart and view. Science is absolutely necessary. Science, however, does not have the ability to encompass every part of existence. It can answer many questions and can be helpful to answer others. It cannot answer every question.

This is why almost every single philosophical school has made room for metaphysics — because materialism can only answer questions about material. Being, consciousness, and teleology are not made up of any substance which we can dissect and annotate.

Sometimes, questions may take us where only the mind can go.

Even questions about trees.

Part Four — Asking Questions About Leaves

Let’s start with the season of initial growth called Spring. A tree has to get up and running from dormancy. The exposure to sunlight increases with the lengthening of days as the Spring Equinox occurs and production of glucose begins.

As a result, the leaves begin exhibiting chlorophyll as food production is fueled from the sun’s energy.

This is where you may say, “Come on. You really think temperature has nothing to do with that?” My response would be, “I never made that claim.” Temperature is not the primary catalyst of food production in a tree. Temperature still plays a role. The molecular movement of the various components at play — nutrients, air, soil, glucose — is still essential and is aided by warmer temperatures (they move faster) and impeded by cold temperatures (they move slower). If the weather was below freezing all summer, no growth would happen. At the same time, if the winter was unusually warm, the tree would still not look like it does in the summer — because the sunlight is essential.

Therefore, as sunlight is extended, the tree is aided by conducive, warmer temperatures. Growth begins. Buds form. The glucose is moving again and the leaves are forming to expedite the process of a tree surviving.

During the summer, glucose production is invigorated. Photosynthesis is multiplying like rabbits and chlorophyll is on full display. No, I did not use the rabbit metaphor when explaining this to my children.

What we are witnessing when we see a fully leafed tree is the result of a vascular system — large groups of veins and tubes — carrying around the tree’s food. Closer inspection to an apparent static tree would reveal a plethora of movement. Glucose is flying around, feeding the tree.

But here’s what is fascinating, the tree only takes as much as it needs to sustain its life.

There is a particular limit of what the tree needs and, when it reaches this capacity, it doesn’t continue to feed.

All parts of the tree have enough.

And then it stops.

Have you ever seen a corpulent tree — oversized to the point of diminishing?

Nature, it seems, only takes as much as is required. There is a name for when a natural body has more than it needs. It’s called cancer. Whether food or sugar or entertainment or luxury — excess is not natural.

So does the tree stop growing?

Yes.

But does it stop producing glucose?

No — because you still see that chlorophyll in the leaves, right?

The necessary amount of glucose continues, but the extra is stored. Not for a rainy day. Not for future surplus. It is, first and foremost, stored for that night — when the sun is down and photosynthesis is briefly stopped. If you see a tree at the end of the day and its leaves are green, the leaves should turn a different color once the sun is gone, right? Well, there is more going on in that tree’s trunk than meets the eye. It overproduces during the day to get the tree through the night.

The tree meets its capacity not just for one moment, but for a duration of time. You do not eat every second of every day because what you eat in one moment is also nurturing your body for continued moments when eating is not occurring.

Again, a tree does not overconsume, but it is prepared.

A tree uses the present to nurture the future. It does not live for the future, but lives in the present so as to make the future possible. A tree approaches times of good fortune to fortify itself for difficulty. When darkness and crisis inevitably present themselves, a tree has rehearsed a way of being to sustain itself through suffering while it is in control to do so.

Let’s jump ahead to winter — because the same process is occurring.

A tree is producing during summer the equivalent to what it would produce if it needed to survive all year. By the time winter comes, it needs to have stored enough to last a season without sunlight.

To do this, a tree also, in both summer and winter, is only using the bare minimum to make this possible. In the summer, it is eating just enough so that it can have just enough to survive the winter when it can’t produce. It takes advantage of abundant sunlight and begins the work to sustain its life as time endures.

Interesting side note — the tree begins forming next year’s buds during the summer.

You ever hear someone say, “Control what you can control.”?

A tree is a master at this.

There is no complacency. A tree is doing everything it can within the constraints of its availability to proceed as healthily as possible. However, the tree is also content. It uses only what is necessary and produces only as much as is necessary in preparation to make its survival necessary based on what is available to it.

Growing like a tree, in all avenues of life, is a wonderful precedent.

However, we are just getting started.

Part Five — Asking Questions About Leaves Changing Color

During solstice, as the days begin getting shorter, the tree shifts its focus. As the sunlight lessens, the tree can no longer create enough for continued production, only just enough to survive the day. Photosynthesis is still occurring, chlorophyll is still being produced, but the process is fading.

As are the leaves.

Once this diminishing sunlight occurs, the tree begins reaching into its storage bank of glucose while also preparing itself for the upcoming winter of dormancy. At this point, the tree stops growing.

Only using its food for nourishment, the tree is no longer able to catalyze growth. Eventually, the diminished sunlight gets to a point that the photosynthesis must stop. As the process draws to a halt, so does the chemical occurrence of chlorophyll.

The question before us is, “Why do leaves change color?”

We may have asked the wrong question.

The real question is, “What is the real color of leaves?”

You see, a leaf isn’t actually green. The green is a pigment produced by chlorophyll as a result of photosynthesis. The entire summer, the real color of a tree’s foliage is masked by the result of its glucose production.

Technically, a leaf does not change color.

Its real color is revealed as the chlorophyll’s green covering fades.

What color is a leaf?

Fall is a season in which we get to find out.

Most trees have leaves which are yellow, orange, or gold. This is the natural pigment of most leaves because they contain the chemical carotene or xanthophyll. You also have trees which have red or scarlet leaves. This color comes from glucose which doesn’t escape the leaf when the tree goes dormant and shuts itself off from the leaf. Some glucose is left behind which decays and appears red alongside the carotene pigment.

What does all this leaf color stuff mean?

That beautiful landscape full of rich colors is the result of a tree going dormant.

Which begins to sound a bit bleak when you consider what is happening.

Why don’t leaves stay on the trees?

These wonderful, textured products of a tree’s growth, the components which existed to give the tree its life and continue its survival, are being excised from the tree. Once the leaf has ceased providing a means for glucose production, the tree no longer has a use for it. As a result, you get to see their true, beautiful colors. But your appreciative beauty is the byproduct of something dying.

This is called abscission. Part of this is very necessary for a tree. Think of the leaves as the skin of the tree which transfer the sunlight into the larger body. Leaves remaining on the tree would be like having uncovered skin in the winter which would damage the tree and make it vulnerable to the cold while infringing on its ability to grow in the future. The tree closes off this connection to the leaves. With nothing left to hold the leaf onto the tree, various elements like rain or wind or a child plucking it from the branch now allows them to fall.

From here, it becomes compost for nature to use.

The leaves which provided glucose production now become the means of future glucose production for the landscape.

I wonder what the leaves think of this? Are they mad? Do they feel like they are getting taken advantage of? They do all of this work and then the tree gets rid of them. But they don’t just get to go away. They decompose so that the tree can use them again. How selfish of that tree!

Or, does nature simply know how to act as a large, singular unit — giving and receiving for its sustained continuation.

Alas, when we take the time to understand what is occurring with trees, we find palpable processes of which we, too, are a part.

Understanding the world may just help us better live in it.

Especially when we allow nature to be our teacher.

Part Six — Asking Questions About Us

We can now make a behavioral jump. It would be easy to use this observational, empirical information to conclude abstract illustrations and cute analogies of what we can learn from trees and leaves. You can certainly do that, but please don’t miss the direct implications which nature is showing us; for we human beings are part of that nature.

We don’t need indirect illustrations which charmingly help us conclude metaphors about how a tree going through abscission is an example of having relational boundaries or something odd like that.

Again, the temptation is to be egocentric and think that all of this stuff about trees is to help you make some insular connection about your life.

No, if we are to synthesize philosophy and ethics; if we are to take information and theory to its resulting behavior and practices, it won’t occur by approaching this information like a mega-church preacher looking for a sermon illustration. It will mean us literally learning from the tree by taking this information to inform our perspective for how we, too, move and live and have our being in the world.

We need to recognize what trees are showing us and that it is not disconnected from our existence. A tree is not an object which exists for us to self-centeredly use. Rather, a tree is a member of our existence by which, if we pay attention, we can observe its function and follow suit.

1 — Nature Uses No More Than is Necessary

A tree understands how much is enough. A tree is content.

“Take no more than nature requires,” is an ethic which we would do well to replicate as a part of that nature.

2 — Nature is Appropriately Prepared

While content, a tree is not complacent. A tree is constantly focusing on what it can control and uses its means to sustain. Utilize the present to make the future not only possible, but healthy.

3 — Leaves Are Not Chlorophyll

The real color of a leaf is hidden by the forces of production, but it does not stay hidden. This one starts getting a bit in the illustration category, but there is an appropriate connection between the surface appearance of a piece of nature and the depths of its existence waiting to be discovered.

The true thing, I believe, is the most beautiful thing.

4 — The Process is Interdependent

A leaf receives its existence from the tree while giving its existence to the tree in the form of photosynthesized glucose and nutrients in the soil.

The tree receives its life from the sun and the earth while returning life to the air and the soil.

There is a cycle within the tree and surrounding the tree of selfless sharing and interdependence. There is no notion of “mine,” rather, there is an apparent realization that the whole of nature will thrive or be destroyed together.

5 — Death is a Part of Nature

And death not only can be good — a form of continuation of the larger body — death can be beautiful.

I wonder if this is why we love looking at trees in their glorious foliage. Is it because we are witnessing something real? Something about what it means to be alive in this world?

When we see a landscape of oranges, yellows, and reds, are we mesmerized by the awe of being alive and seeing an authentic portrayal of what we are a part of?

I find comfort in the fact that a beautiful landscape is a bunch of leaves who have given what they can and are now done, offering the visible parts of their essence as a way to mark that something is over.

And then they go and still affect the world.

Even when you can no longer see them.

Because of an etiological question from the astute phenomenology of my children, I have come to understand the world I inhabit a little bit more. It has forced me to embrace the mystery of existence in something so simple and mundane and ordinary as a tree, but it has also compelled an unforeseen recognition of the ethical map I hope to better traverse.

Knowing about trees can incarnate a better world.

Because growing like a tree is a wonderful precedent.

I think my children and I are all a bit better for understanding the world so as to better live in it.

And I hope you are, too.