Originally published November 28, 2001 for USC Writing 140. Updated December 6, 2001.
Towering nearly one-hundred feet above me, and below an additional two-hundred feet of living wood, grew a single branch larger in diameter than any tree east of the Mississippi River. As massive as that branch itself was, in comparison to its supporting structure, a giant sequoia, its size seemed insignificant. Even more impressive, the branch’s bearer, in its vast age, had seen the surrounding wood arise over a period spanning three millennia. The first time I gazed upon that astounding limb, my eyes having traversed the journey from the sequoia’s base skyward, I was struck with a sense of awe which I have felt few times before or since. Standing in the shadow of such a giant, I remember feeling small– existing as a current burden on the sequoia’s roots, one among a long succession of fleeting observers.
The awe that I felt in response to the sequoia arose from my musings as to who those observers might have been: heroes, presidents, and kings among them in the preceding two-hundred years alone. Considering this question, and also the varied conditions with which such observers might have existed, I drew upon the sequoia’s ability to serve as a connective tissue transcending the traditional boundaries of the human life span. As a result, my concept of time and my understanding of human action began to radically change.
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