The Trees Sing

Peace fill you as you return to the light

The week before last I was literally brought to my knees as waves of grief filled sobs came washing over me. This extremely emotional response was brought on by the sound of heavy equipment, chainsaws and woodchippers. When they first pulled up in my neighbor’s driveway I thought they were coming for a struggling tree covered in vines clearly in the end stages of life. When I saw them begin to take limb after limb from an absolutely magnificent Sycamore tree in perfect health, I felt like they were coming for me too.

This tree and I are friends. Grandmother Moon often rises through her branches. In the morning she is one of the beings I greet when I step outside to offer my morning prayers. I often stand in silence admiring the gray and white bark set against a brilliant blue sky. I admire her buttonballs that dangle like fuzzy earrings through the winter. She fills the skyline to the east of our home. The thought of looking in that direction at emptiness gutted me.

Compounding Grief

Ultimately, she was just getting a trim and was not being taken down. Thank God. I don’t think my nervous system could have handled it if she was. I started to look at why I was so emotionally broken open by a simple tree trimming and then it struck me that this is actually compounding grief.

Lately I have heard story after story of trees being taken down for human convenience - to build bigger houses, have flatter sidewalks, cleaner gutters. For those of us that have found our spiritual home in the natural world, these actions feel heartless, cruel and careless. Those feelings arise all too often these days. It’s a harsh world we are living in both on a macro and a micro level.

On a large scale we are inundated by images on the news of war and destruction of all kinds. More personally, a close family friend died unexpectedly, the father of a soul sister passed without warning, the calendar turned a full year since I said goodbye to my sweet Phoebe. We are frequently reminded that life is fragile. Hearing the chainsaws was the thing that pushed my nervous system right over the edge and brought me to my knees. Enough is enough.

But then I was reminded that to feel this depth of grief is also a measure of the depth of love.

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Peace fill you as you return to the light

As I’ve found my spiritual home in Nature, I’ve come to understand belonging and connection on a new level. I have deep personal connections to particular trees, I frequently make eye contact with birds, deer and other nonhuman kin. My sense of ownership has fallen away to be replaced with stewardship and a responsibility to care for the beings around me. I don’t own them. We exist together in this time and space in relationship with one another. They are not a resource for my taking, but sentient beings with souls.

Recently, I heard a story that touched me deeply. A participant within the Seminary of the Wild Earth was sharing a similar story of being overcome with grief from the loss of trees in her neighborhood. She asked the standing trees what they do when they witness this happening to one of their kin. They said, “We sing.” At first, she was shocked to have received a response. Curious, she asked what they sing. And they said, “Peace fill you as you return to the light.”

I was overcome with the beauty in this story. Imagine trees coming together to sing a blessing to their loved one as they are being taken down by human hands. It’s tender and heartbreaking and also sacred.

I will add my voice to the song of the trees as a blessing. I invite you to do the same.

Sycamore continues to speak

My encounter with Sycamore continued last week when I was on a wander. It was garbage day. All kinds of things are discarded by the side of the road on garbage day. I like to keep my eyes peeled because sometimes you can find treasures to upcycle and repurpose. This week I found a tree uprooted and discarded by the side of the road. As I moved closer, I discovered that she was a Sycamore. At first, I was angry. Here we go again! But then I felt a spark of hope.

I ran back to the house and hopped in my trusty and rusty 22-year-old pickup truck and rushed back over to her hoping to beat the garbage trucks. Success! I was able to rescue her from the side of the road and bring her home. Now what to do? She needed water quickly if she was to survive.

Thankfully the trucks had made their way down my street already, so our composting bin was empty. It was the perfect size and shape to hold her while she recovered and waited to be planted once more.

I carried bucket after bucket of water to pour in the bin to cover her roots. I checked on her a few hours later and found the water level had gone down several inches. At first thought that perhaps there was a leak in the bin, but there was no leak. She was drinking!

A Gift from Sycamore and Stardust

After Phoebe passed, my husband and I talked about planting a memorial tree, but we had yet to make it happen. Now we have the perfect tree to honor her memory - a rescue just like Phoebe was.

Meet Phoebe, the memorial rescue tree.

Yesterday my husband and I planted her in the spot Phoebe would sit in when we first rescued her. It took her a year to run to me instead of away from me when she was scared. Now Phoebe, the Sycamore tree, will live in this spot as a memorial to my sweet girl who is now stardust.

I look forward to nurturing this young beauty and hope that she has many more years to grow and thrive alongside her beautiful kin in my neighbor’s yard. May it be so.

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In addition to writing, Barbara Doane is an Idea Doula and the founder of Find Your Frolic. She believes that when you birth an idea into the world, you don’t just create something new - you become someone new. Her unique approach blends practical insights from decades of experience launching new products to market woven together with intuitive, heart-centered mentoring. You are the creator. She is the companion who helps you stay aligned and accountable. Let’s frolic.