When I was little, I spent part of my summers at my maternal grandmother’s cottage, in Rigaud, on the banks of the Ottawa River.
On this large plot of land facing the wind and waves, I had two favorite places: the large rock and the shadow of a large oak tree.
The big rock eventually got smaller as I grew older, and one day the big American red oak died. I don’t remember the exact cause of his death. An illness, a violent storm, ice, all these answers? I don’t know, but I remember feeling a dull sadness about it. How could this native species, which has been growing in America for seven million years and has a life expectancy of 200 to 300 years, disappear before me?
I thought it was immortal, this oak.
This column was published on the day the famous Quebec astrophysicist Hubert Reeves was buried in Paris. Another one that I thought was immutable.
The flag of the National Assembly is at half-mast to highlight the immeasurable contribution of this man of science and great humanist. He will have succeeded in popularizing the universe, in making us aware of the fragility of life, in making us realize the importance of our collective actions, among other miracles.
The first time I encountered this man’s unique voice, and his unique way of rolling his “r’s”, was in 1992, I was 16 years old. At that time, I was a fan of Claude Lelouch and the filmmaker had entrusted Hubert Reeves with the prologue of his film The beautiful story. On the image of an immense red sun which slowly declines above a city, we hear the man of science say that he is “voluntarily optimistic”, despite the fact that humans are poorly adapted in relation to other animal species and despite the history of our civilizations paved with racism, war and oppression.
The prologue ended with this sentence: “ […] there, on the contrary, we are called to surpass ourselves, perhaps for the first time, really, we will be obliged to surpass ourselves, because we will be forced to surpass ourselves, it will be that or nothing.”
These words created a huge uproar within me. This old man — he was only 60 years old at the time, but for the teenager that I was then, he was close to Methuselah — had just opened a hole in my thinking. Now I understood that we had to do more, do better, and do it now. That was in 1992. Thirty-one years later, I don’t think we’ve surpassed ourselves yet, but those words still resonate within me like a gentle litany of hope.
Hubert Reeves was a wise old man, in the noble sense of the term. Someone who uses the sum of their knowledge to change the world around them. On his own, he may not have succeeded in reducing greenhouse gas emissions, eradicating social inequalities, or saving mangroves or bees, even if it was, according to him, urgent. to do it to save humanity. On the other hand, he will have warned us, he will have instructed us, he will have told us about the beauty of the world and, in the best case scenario, he will have created followers who, today, continue his work with the same fervor.
While writing these lines, the memory of another particular voice also arose, that of Serge Bouchard.
The Quebec anthropologist, author and radio host knew how to speak so well about our imperfect humanity with kindness. It is thanks to his insatiable curiosity for human lives and their stories that many of us wanted to meet others. He forged links between souls. By telling us about his love and deep respect for the Innu nation, for truckers, and even for the May Wests, he made us understand that every existence is a richness. He knew how to remind us of the importance of those who had surveyed the territory and who had made it fertile long before us.
By listening to Serge Bouchard, we could be overcome by a furious tenderness for humans from all walks of life and feel all the responsibility we have for the transmission of knowledge. Another wise old man whose voice has died away.
In a society which has dramatically accelerated, where armed conflicts are still present, where social disparities are overwhelming, where hundreds of animal and plant species are disappearing, it is imperative to give a platform to the wise old men and women before that they are not carried away by time.
While they try to sell us more or less invasive remedies to reduce the fine lines that mark the passage of time on our faces, we forget that the most beautiful thing about us is probably the sum of our experiences.
We should never take for granted the soothing shade that old oak trees provide. They must be honored while they are alive. We must salute their strength and learn from what they want to teach us. And when they fall, we must pick their acorns and sow them in new soil so that their wisdom can continue to grow.
Today the flag is at half-mast, as it should be every time the voice of an old sage gives way to silence and the wind can be heard passing between the branches of an old oak tree.
Salomé Corbo is an actress, improviser, author and citizen as best she can.