Elias smiled, adjust his glasses. "Those aren't tears, Sarah. Those are , or more technically, mature lenticels. When a tree is young, its skin is tight and smooth. But as it matures—as its heartwood thickens and it expands to hold more life—the outer bark has to give way. It creates those openings so it can breathe."
Sarah looked at the grove differently then. She no longer saw damaged bark, but a forest of elders, breathing deeply through the marks of their own history. mature slits
He led her closer, showing her how the slits allowed the internal tissues of the tree to exchange gases with the atmosphere. Without these "scars" of maturity, the tree would suffocate within its own growth. Elias smiled, adjust his glasses
One morning, a young apprentice named Sarah joined him. She pointed to a particularly gnarled, older tree. "Look at these deep marks," she said, tracing the long, horizontal "slits" that broke through the white, papery surface. "It looks like the tree is tearing itself apart." When a tree is young, its skin is tight and smooth