THE WOOD REMEMBERS

     I would guess that the ancient Greeks and Romans, the Celts, and many Indigenous tribes and peoples knew and know that trees are alive. I do not mean "alive" in the sense that we Westerners think of as consciousness. I mean "alive" as in: roots taking up water, sap rising in the tree, leaves unfolding, and photosynthesis occurring. Although, I have to say, that is a damn remarkable way of being alive.

   No, I refer to a deeper and more mysterious way of being "alive," a way that many of us either do not know or believe. Just take the recent article of December 2cnd in the NY Times, "The Social Life of Trees," by Ferris Jabr, citing the extensive and revolutionary research of Suzanne Simard, Ph.D., professor of forestry at Oregon University. She has discovered through minute and replicable science that trees do talk to one another through the network fungi called mycorrhizal. These threads interact with tree roots in such a way to help water and nutrients (phosphorus and nitrogen) be taken up by the tree roots in spring, and then in the fall the trees send carbon  down to the fungi network to feed it. Apparently, trees communicate: they share resources, hormones can travel on these subterranean networks; alarms about danger can be given to nearby trees; "mother trees" can send nutrients to younger saplings; trees can be aware of animals, plants, and humans close by and "alter their behavior accordingly"; and one expects that forests are aware of the humans walking the woodland trails and more. One can call the forests a "superorganism, and this network of living green things holds true for other kinds of plant landmasses like the tundra and prairies. I expect it would also hold true for our gardens.

 

This gives me furiously to think, as Poirot would say. My eyes have been opened, my soul has been opened. And all this came from the tragedy happening during a recent dereco storm which twisted and burst open a large high limb on the wild cherry behind my son Ben's room.

 This was the tree I looked at through my son's window as I changed his diapers on the changing table. This is the tree I saw lashing back and forth during hurricanes and fierce snowstorms, knowing we would lose power and would have to sit by the fireplace to stay warm. I always sent a prayer that our wild cherry would survive the storms. This is the tree I watched as the morning sun slanted through its boughs onto the floor where my 3-year-old son organized all his tiny cars into an intricate arrangement of 3 half-circles. This wild cherry stood watch as my son was ill in the top bunk one night, and I imagined it sent healing tree thoughts to help him recover. It stood watch over our whole house for 40 years, and now it must come down.

I know things change and die, or as God reminded me early this fall when I prayed about my fears of dying, "You are not made to last." And neither is this tree. This gives me a fellowship with the tall, gray trunk, the lichen on its bark, the blasted open golden inside. Or, as the wise forest man said when he viewed the damage, "Wood remembers. It has been twisted before in storms several times, and now, in this last storm, it was vised open." Such wisdom. I should ride around in the truck with these forest guys, absorbing their wide and deep knowledge.

But for now, the big and noisy crane is backing up to my beloved tree, ready to take her down. I sent a blessing to her through the screened window, thanking her for watching over my son; thanking her for producing wild cherries for birds to eat; thanking her for her wild green leaves, changing into bright golden ones which carpeted the path below. Thank you and bless you tree. Maybe we will meet again.