Desiccated. A 40 foot veteran. Living as many years as she was high. A spectacle for all the wrong reasons. Residing in the corner of the backyard. Supervising all things natural and man made. Presiding over the swimming pool-polluting the chlorine infested waters with leaves and sap in the fall. Occupying space and air with leaves in the springtime. The seasons have turned 39 times. Now, sad old wood, lifeless and light and large.
Dehydrated like the old. Fragile like the old. Little did I know the knowledge I would extract from her demise. Like most things- lessons begin at the end. Upon reflection. In retrospect and hindsight.
It began with our lemon sapling. Bright and young. Bouncy and small. Sweet. Meyer to be specific. We had to find a space for our babe, but where? All young things need warmth, love, and the sun.
As I looked around the backyard I scoffed at the mess she made. Her sad dead branches cracked and fell into the clear water. Splashing around in the youth, in the fresh..
“There.” Without sentiment, I pointed to the corner of the yard. Right where the sun always hits and life used to grow. Newness will replace her.
So it began. 7am to be exact- Saturday. Three different generations met and began systematically cutting her down. The eldest of all climbing high and braving threatening heights. The old man was fearless. He was nearly double the age of the old tree- but as lively as the two youths holding the ladder.
Chainsaw in hand, straddling the branches of her body, he worked-we worked. Laboring and clearing the dead debris. Huffing and puffing at the weight of some branches; while insulting the lightness of some of her deadness. It didn't seem insidious at the time. She had to go. Without promise of production-what's a woman good for anyway?
Like most projects, this one took longer than intended. Evaluate, climb, saw, clear, repeat. Over and over for hours. Time ticked away.
We got to the long trunk of the tree. “Finally.. Almost done.”
“Yeah right, now we have to dig up the roots. The foundation of this tree is as deep and wide as it was high.” The old man replied.
“How hard could this be?” I thought.
Hard.
Tough. Manual.
Sweating and cursing under my breath we all settled our asses in her circumference. Crowbar and shovel in hand. Working the earth and dry dirt. Excavating each root. Carefully shedding the dust off as much as we could before the chainsaw took her out of the ground. Her years and history,tossed away like a splinter.
Little by little, day by day, I worked alone and in tandem. Surgically removing her guts, severing each small tendon and tossing her aside.
The sun was hot and my body filthy from her insides. Sweat glistening from my forehead. My body stenched with work. My eyes squinting as I took a beat. I could hear my heart rapidly pushing blood through my veins. My newly mocha colored skin began to burn like the sun above me. And in all my ignorance I became aware...
I was shade-less.
Totally exposed to the elements. My head tilted up and instinctively I closed my eyes. No more skeletal branches to create rays of light through the old tree. No longer were there permutations of branches extending out..
I was uprooting years, time, photosynthesis… as fast as I could. For the promise of youth and production. For saccharine fruit and supple blossom.
This is the circle of life. Her time had come. I placed my soiled hands on her base in total silence. With the worms as my company I touched her and moved my fingers over her rings. In awe of the detail in her years. Her age was exposed. Vulnerable for all who knew how to read her. For all who knew what they meant.
What had this tree seen? A 40 year time lapse began racing through my mind. The blazing hot summers and rainy winters. Drought and excess. People coming and going. Time passing. Trees growing.
Death.
It’s natural. It’s all natural. I’m not even sure she would have protested. She lived her years and now space must be made for youth. But endings are just as important as beginnings. The didactic nature of termination. Could I end her life more thoughtfully?
The old and obsolete deserve memorials. They deserve the retelling of stories. Of heroic moments and timeless romance. They deserve reverence and consideration.
The old don’t resist youth. They resist loneliness. They resist becoming fossils.
Uprooted, discarded, and exchanged.
They resist being forgotten, unimportant, and out of touch.
Most aged people willingly give of themselves for a child, a fresh opportunity, an uncontaminated life. But the resistance comes in the relationships to the young.
The wisdom is in the trees.
When I went back to work, I resumed slowly. Yes the sun was beating on my bare skin, yes I was parched from the liquid cascading down my back. But I owed her.
Respect through time and space.
Upon slicing the last tendon from the ground and separating her from Mother Earth, I said a short prayer of gratitude and love. For she is a symbol. A symbol of life making another trip around the sun.
We have no control over the universe continuing. It will do so without permission or defiance from anyone or anything. Gifting presence to an old tree like her, even in the last moments taught me to honor those who came before while they are still here. Even in the last days.
Because tomorrow a seedling will be planted. And it will all start again.