Only God can make a tree

Joyce Kilmer 1886–1918

Trees

I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.


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Driving up to my parents house yesterday I came upon an eerie and disturbing sight. I wasn't sure at first what had changed, but the quality of light on the street seemed overly bright, perverse even. I felt immediately (though intellectually I knew better) that I was on the wrong street. There was something very wrong. And then I realized what was missing, and what I had completely forgotten (or mentally blocked) when I heard the news two weeks ago. Upon hearing it, I simply refused to believe it. Now the reality struck me with full measure. Now I had to witness in person what my Mom's neighbor had done.

My tree was gone.

It wasn't really my tree, it was the tree gracing the yard across the street from my childhood home. It belonged once to our neighbors, the Muirheads, until about 15 years ago. Then was purchased by a local town representative and his lively, growing family. In truth, I know it didn't really belong to either of the two families. Though they occupied the house, owned the lot and the adjacent yard wherein the tree grew from seedling to gigantic sentinel. That tree belonged to itself and was probably over 100 years old. It was the most beautiful tree in our neighborhood (in my opinion), and now it's gone.

The bright yellow white wood of the recently cut massive stump gave testimony of what was until recently a healthy, vibrant, living spirit of a seven story evergreen. Right down to the day of it's demise. It was completely without disease or poor form. It's long, deep green/blue bows once swept gracefully and generously down from it's towering, reverential, steeple-like peak. The lowest branches skirted and flirted with the street in front of it, but not enough to be intrusive to cars parked nearby. The tree provided hours of cool shade in late summer afternoons and offered an almost condominium-like lifestyle for local birds. There was a lot of life teeming in that tree through the year. It showed the restraint of a refined evergreen during the fall months, never trying to upstage the adjacent oak trees that recklessly shed thousands of leaves and created back-breaking messes every Autumn.

It provided the ideal canopy for playing hide and seek, cowboy and Indian games, and a majestic stable for my many imaginary horses. It was a safe, haven-like shelter during unexpected summer showers, and the perfect hiding spot to avoid punishment after breaking one two many rules. But now it's gone.

From my mother's driveway yesterday, I estimated the size of the stump measured about four feet across, though it could have been larger. I tried to envision exactly how tall that tree, and how wide. I wanted an official estimate of how old it had been before it met with the cold, vicious, vibrating steel teeth of someone's chain saw. I wondered if it went easy or hard. I wondered if it hurt. But it's gone now, and I'll never have a chance to measure it.

As I looked at the milky-yellow pulpy remains of my tree I thought of the redwoods. I thought about the time, patience and endurance these trees need in order to reach their magnificent heights. While this was no redwood, it was the closest thing I had in my life demonstrating a tree's patience and endurance, and how it measures the passing of time. I could consult about a dozen pictures taken over a span of 40 or more years and reflect on how it had grown, and changed. How it marked the seasons, managed through the hurricanes and ice storms of our lifetime, the passing of the holidays, and the sense of peace and wonder I would feel when I would wake up to the sight of snow lying down perfectly on each of it's branches. It was the sort of tree that produced pictures meant for photographs and canvases, to be displayed proudly on a wall or in a gallery. It was a symbol of my childhood. And now, it's gone.

After dropping off my husband to help my parents with a few household repairs, I stood at the end of my mother's driveway for ten or twenty seconds and stared sadly and angrily at the neighbor's house. If my Mom's neighbor had appeared at that moment, I would have walked up and, without warning, hit him squarely on the nose. I would not offer an explanation, and there would be no apology. Something told me he would know exactly why I was angry and why I struck him.

When no one appeared, I got into my car and I drove away. My eyes watered briefly and I worked very quickly to regain my composure. I was driving to a lunch meeting around the corner and didn't want to appear distraught or have to give a lot of explanation. I knew if I started crying, I wouldn't be able to stop.

Like now.

How can you possibly explain to someone the significance of a tree in your life? What does it mean to be so moved to tears by the destruction of one plant that clearly was causing some sort of problem or maybe even a hazard for someone else? When a disaster strikes a family, a neighborhood, a town or an entire nation, there are those of us who live in close proximity to the stricken and feel that pain so intensely that its reasonable to think these lives have also been altered permanently. I wonder if my Mom's neighbor gave any thought at all to how the loss of this tree would effect the people around him. I realize he probably had his reasons for cutting down the tree, and they may have been very good ones, but it would have been nice to have been consulted. I'm sure had he any idea of my attachment to that tree, he would have called me to let me know. Given me an opportunity to take a few more pictures and say goodbye. At least, that's what I'd like to believe.

That's what neighbors do, right?

My husband and I have spent the last 24 hours monitoring news feeds about the devastation of the quake, ensuing tsunami, and now nuclear power plant explosion in Japan and impacting all the islands in the Asia-Pac region. And our hearts ache. We sit here like so many others and feel our helplessness, weeping for the victims of this senseless devastation. While we acknowledge there is still a need to go on with our daily lives, we pray for the victims as we gratefully hug our children, call our parents and siblings, tell each other "I love you". This is a chance to recognize once again the incredible bounty of our lives. We promise to ourselves that we will not let another day go by without acknowledging with gratitude the blessings bestowed upon us.

I turn off the news and I go back to thinking about my tree. In my mind I realize it's probably easier for me to think about my tree than about the thousands of lives lost in a natural disaster on the other side of the world. My mind can't comprehend this yet, I literally can't get my head around it. Like the stark yellow-white wood of the stump, the reality of it is too fresh and too painful. But I have found some way to relate and, while somewhat limited, I am finding a way to help. My husband and I will donate to the Red Cross, we will make material donations, and we will pray. It's so very difficult to think about what life is like on the ground in Japan at this moment. I am very grateful that I am not living through it, but I still feel it inside. I can't experience the tangible quality, so I focus instead on my sadness and grieve over the loss of a tree that once looked at God all day, and whose lacy arms once prayed to the sky.

And I cry with abandon.