Requiem for a Tree

It was hot and buggy and I was tired and cross, but my husband convinced me to plant the Impatiens right away because the next day was supposed to be hotter.  So I did, mumbling and grumbling as I knelt down to dig up the earth.  Every year we planted Impatiens around the Sugar Maple, the Queen of our trees, two trees in fact, each slanting in opposite directions in ever so pleasing ways. It was the showcase of our yard.

The bugs were buzzing around my face and it was humid as I dug deep into the rich soil around the tree and I was still irritable.  But slowly the irritation started to give way as my hands enjoyed the damp, humid earth, and the magic of the tree took hold of me.  I was filled with a sense of reverence.  Under that tree it was hard not to feel the tranquility of the site, with birds singing and a heavy shade under her big, green leaves.  In fact, we thought it such a peaceful spot we planted our dog’s ashes there.  Dear Ko-ko was an indoor dog really but this place was so quiet and cool and private we thought she would be happy in the shady nook at the roots in back.

 Soon all the Impatiens were planted and I was feeling exhilarated.  The tree was happy with the plantings, I could feel it.  She liked having her roots adorned with flowers and the pink, purple and violet Impatiens suited her.  I felt, at the risk of sounding “out there,” the tree was thanking me. 

It wasn’t the first time I felt communication with this tree.  Often sitting out back and admiring her, I felt her kindly “vibes.”  “The tree likes us,” I told my husband.  No, it wasn’t the first time.  Little did I suspect that it would be the last.  We had been warned that a tree grown together with another is weak and experts had pronounced this tree a goner five years ago.  But we hoped and prayed and my husband drove in fertilizers sticks around her with religious regularity. 

I knew it would be like this.  I had seen it in my mind.  So when we drove in that night at twilight and my husband said, “The tree fell over,” I both knew it and felt shock.  And knowing it did not stop the tears. We got out of the car and surveyed the damage. One tree, the one which had been hanging lower the past few weeks, had just keeled over, roots upright in the air.  She got tired of living I guess.  And already her leaves were beginning to dry out.

We both were upset.  And I remembered as I lay in bed thinking of the tree, the fairy tale my Mother had read me long, long ago… The Little Fir Tree, about a fir tree that wants so badly to become a Christmas tree and go to a family’s home.  He finally does get cut down and a family buys him and he is decorated royally and the center of attention.  His happiness is short-lived however, for a few days after Christmas is over he is thrown out in a heap of trash and is miserable.  I remember crying inconsolably over that story.  A child’s tale one might say but over the years I have studied research, mostly Russian studies, that show that plants and trees are sentient beings, and can sense things like when their fellow trees or plants are being destroyed.  So there was some kernel of truth in that fairy tale. 

With soldiers and civilians dying daily across the world, or citizens of the world dying from the effects of climate change, and hunger, breaking the hearts of loved ones, it sounds silly crying for a tree.  And yet, perhaps itis apt to mourn her, for in this world of violence, she was a thing of beauty, a magnanimous soul who gave the ordinary tree things: shade, cool in the summer, as a home for living things she was also a stage for watching birds and squirrels from our bedroom window… but most precious of all, she bestowed on all who knew her the priceless gift of PEACE!

July 21, 2023 | Categories: Abstract Photography, Loss, Mood Photographs, Trees, Twilight of Life | Tags: Death, Landscape Photography, Plants as sentient beings, Summer in the city, Trees, Trees as sentient beings, Trees dying | 16 Comments