Lessons From Trees
Many people’s sense of time has felt warped since March of 2020. When I feel disoriented and question how much time has passed since that interminable month, I look at the trees. Not the evergreens from which Washington state gets its nickname, but the deciduous trees. They tell the story of the seasons.
My home office looks out at a large maple tree that’s taller than our two-story house. It is winter now and the maple has long shed its leaves. But I still see bits of green in the moss that clings to the branches. It is cold and sunny at the moment, but I wonder whether winter storms will knock down any of those branches in the coming months.
I don’t remember exactly when the leaves fell from the maple last year, but I recall watching them blow off on a particularly windy autumn day and feeling sad. There was something about being cooped up in my home office for so long that made it hit me. The realization that the falling leaves were a sign that the hours of daylight were growing shorter with each day got to me.
Unlike many people in the northern parts of the US, I don’t suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Most years, I shrug at the idea that having eight hours of daylight out of 24—and seemingly fewer when dense cloud cover blankets the sky—is any problem. But 2020 was different. After that windy autumn day, I resolved to get outdoors during daylight hours every day, even if only for a few minutes, regardless of the weather. That helps a great deal.
Earlier this month, I picked up a book whose title and description called to me: Witness Tree by Lynda Mapes. It’s the story of a year she spent in the Harvard Forest following one particular oak tree. But the book offers much more than watching the passage of the seasons from the viewpoint of a single oak. It is an ode to the wonder of nature and how people’s relationship with it has changed. Mapes says this of trees: “We need them, but they do not need us.”
On an individual scale, we can benefit physically and emotionally from a walk in the forest or even just looking at trees. On a global scale, trees absorb carbon dioxide from our environment. Without them, the climate would have warmed even more rapidly than what we’ve observed in the past century. Saving trees, and planting more of them, saves humanity.
Although I have long believed in the healing power of nature, Mapes’ book expanded my perspective on trees and the people who study them. I recommend this book to anyone who wants to gain insight into why trees and forests matter and what both trained scientists and patient observers can teach us. Here are a few things I learned:
The rings of a tree tell much more than its age. Details within the band of wood a tree grows each summer tell the story of the tree’s immediate environment in that year.
Trees go through daily cycles of growth and rest, not merely yearly cycles.
Squirrels can identify weevil-infested acorns with an impressive degree of accuracy. (I guess the story of Veruca Salt in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory was based on a fact about squirrels.)
Paleoecologists dig up mud deep underground and analyze it to learn about climate history.
I walk or run amongst trees every week on the trails that are a short walk or drive from my house. But I don’t usually pay attention to the details. When I run, I keep my eye on the path ahead so I can avoid tripping on roots or landing in a puddle. When I walk, I don’t need to focus on the ground as closely, but I’m often lost in thought, mulling over something that happened recently or contemplating the day ahead.
Yesterday, I decided to do something different. I walked at my usual rapid pace to a forested area about a mile and a half from home. Then I paused my mileage tracker and slowed down to just be present amongst the trees. I took photos of some of the things I noticed:
The various shades of green on the ferns, slightly lighter toward the tips
The drops of rain filling small ponds to the side of the trail
Small trees growing out from the trunks of evergreens that had fallen many years ago
A row of vertical holes in one tall evergreen that had to be the work of birds
I also listened to the sound of light rain falling and heard birdsong, although I couldn’t see the birds.
I will take this experience as a lesson. In the spring of 2020, I took comfort in watching buds burst and trees come into leaf, a sign that nature was continuing its course regardless of the growing pandemic. Was I imagining that birds seemed more plentiful that year, or was it just that I stopped to notice?
This year, I will purposely pay attention to the changes happening in the maple tree outside my window and in the tiny forests in my community. I have a feeling that the spring of 2021 will bring a sense of hope.