Felled Trees

For the Sake of Progress

The sprawling maple in our backyard had to come down if we wanted to move forward with our plans for an addition to the house. At least that was the justification my husband used to get me to agree. Did I agree? I’m not sure. But it came down the other day, and it bothered me more than it should have.

I sat out on the deck the day before with my coffee and just gazed up at the leaves. Losing that tree woke memories from childhood, and I watched them dance across my subconscious. I grew up in a unique pocket of Detroit, adjacent to a vast wooded land surrounding the Rouge River. My friends and I played in the woods all summer long, and winter too when we weren’t in school. We made tree forts and covered the entrances with long, straggly sprays of old branches we called “Witch’s Hair,” making for mysterious little hiding places. We crossed the swampy parts of the river barefoot over a felled log, noticing the tadpoles flitting below us. We climbed trees like it was second nature and sometimes even napped up there on a strong branch. Never a fear of falling to the ground. We wove stories of fairies dancing on the mossy base of trees between the roots. These are the beautiful, peaceful memories of my childhood.

Later, when I had to face darker truths about my youth, I longed to go back to those woods. But the trails are overgrown now, not such an idyllic place for children to run free anymore, so I can never go back. These days, I seek out other woodsy places to walk and think. I feel a connection to my past that grounds me—the negative parts sloughing off on the path behind me. I like to breathe in the scent of pine needles, lilies of the valley, and even dirt, hoping for a little mental reset.

 Sometimes family secrets or the dynamics of disfunction grow too large and block our path forward. During a period of discovery, I remember feeling that, metaphorically, trees were cut down in my life. A fierce storm had rolled in, striking a beautiful maple’s limbs, and fallen branches lay haphazardly all over my yard. It took some work to gather them all back together, clean up and plant something new.

I think that’s why cutting down this tree the other day touched a nerve. I didn’t want to say goodbye to another one. Can you relate? Letting go of the past can be difficult, but we don’t know what’s ahead of us if we stay in place clinging to what’s behind us, arranging and rearranging all those thoughts. And those old memories are heavy. We can’t just store them on a microchip like they do today. Those of us of a certain age store ours on those bulky, metal 8mm film canisters. Both hard to let go and hard to carry.

We do have other trees in our yard, thankfully. And it’s true, we needed the space for progress. I must say, I didn’t realize until recently quite how much joy I experience watching my 8-year-old granddaughter zip up our front yard tree every time she visits. If we lose sight of her for a second, we just need to look up.