Trees

April 28, 2025

Greetings from the grafted,

“Trees are the world thinking out loud.”   Richard Powers, from The Overstory.

It is the season where nature reminds us of its intention, its purpose.  I wasn’t thinking those exact words, but I could feel the message seeping into me as I walked along the path.

The floor of the forest was littered with notes from last autumn, little to-do lists from the trees.  Somewhere beneath this carpet were the beginnings of other growing things.  Tiny purple flowers edged between the moss.  The undergrowth held a lace of things with green accents on the tips.  Little blades of new leafy life spoke hopeful thoughts from the damp places, and from the clusters of baby growth on the branches.

Some trees can’t wait for spring, already bursting into green, shaping the first of the canopy that will soon form over these woods.  It was beautiful and intricate moment in time, as if I was walking in a museum of various styles.  Some trees are pencil drawings, sketched in black and gray against the marbled sky, others are already watercolors, shimmering in pale green and yellow.

I was focused on moving up and down the hilly trail, working my hiking poles, a light pack on my back.  I was thinking about miles and building stamina and also about how much time before it would get dark.  In my pack, next to the snacks and a compass, was a headlamp.  Just in case.

I have an awkward relationship with being prepared.  On the one hand, it’s a well-traveled trail, and I’ll never be more than a few miles from a road, or back to my car.  On the other hand, cell service is sketchy, no one knows exactly where I am.  I have water and a few protein bars, but no first aid kit, no shelter, and only a modicum of common sense, which I apply in stingy doses.

The trees waved above me, clacking their naked parts together, sharing a mild warning that there was a change in the weather coming on this wind.  I looked up at the sky, where there had been patches of blue there were bruised clouds, gray and white and shades of purple.

A pileated woodpecker swooped across the trail in front of me, as if to startle me into paying attention.  He was close enough to see the red and black markings, and the glint in his eye as he fluttered past, fanning his wings to change direction to keep from crashing into me.

I stopped to watch him disappear into the trees and heard the first rumble of thunder. It would have been easy to ignore if it wasn’t followed by a louder roar just above me.  The trees were noisier now, all of them gossiping about the weather, each trying to make themselves heard. It occurred to me they had been talking to me all along.  There was another growl from the clouds above me and a white streak of lightning forked into the open places between the trees. 

I am a fraidy-cat when it comes to being struck lightning. I know about the odds, it doesn’t matter, it still feels like the next bolt is coming for me.  My heart suddenly was banging inside my chest, and something primal in me said I should do something besides just stand there.  My awkward relationship with being prepared suddenly felt less awkward and more foolish.  I had no idea what people should do in a lightning storm, I could only remember it was either get under a tree or get away from trees.  Only one of those options was available.

The rain flirted with the forest, sprinkling in some places, drizzling in others, then rushing in with a burst of wind in a quick soaking.  I picked up my pace, and after only a few minutes realized that I couldn’t go fast enough to make much difference.  I was an hour from the car, I really needed to do something other than panic.

Even as the storm settled on me in earnest, the thunder rasping in the air around me, the creases of jagged electricity scratching across the sky, it felt different.  I know better than this, but it seemed to me that the trees were protecting me.  Even in their half-dressed state, they kept most of the rain from me.  I also had this impression that they were keeping the lightning from striking me.  I slowed down again, less panicked now, even as the thunder boomed all around me and the streaks of power flashed between the dark branches.  The trees swayed above me, giant living ancestors, invincible benefactors.

The next morning, I joined a knot of people in a small park tucked in a city neighborhood. This place is in a transition season of sorts too, somewhere between desperation and hope. The park is a green relief amidst concrete and metal.  The houses that line the streets take turns between devotion and neglect. The park’s original intention seems to have been largely forgotten.

We were there to plant trees.  They will soak up water and minimize the mosquitos, prevent erosion.  They will make the city cooler, fresher, and in time, they will offer shade.  They will, one day, restore nature in a place that has at times forgotten it, among neighbors who may think of forests as something in books and faraway places.

I put my hand into the damp soil and folded the fragile roots of the sapling into the earth.  I felt the power of the small thing, in its potential.  I felt its future unfolding in the air above me, making a new canopy of leaves.  I felt it protecting the world, an umbrella against whatever weather was offered.

It was a small act of thanks. Not just to the seedling’s relatives for saving me the day before, but to all of the trees I have walked under, climbed in, rested against.  For the texture of their bark and the dancing leaves and the cool shade and the beauty.  And the example of connection they demonstrate all of their lives, connected to each other and to most all living things.

 It was also an apology of sorts, a hands-on act of contrition.  I have not always been kind to the world I’ve been given, both in my acts and in my neglect.  I’m realizing now that even the small things I failed to do, and did on purpose, mattered to my friends the trees.  I’m smiling here, thinking of how gracious the forest was on that stormy evening, even in light of my spotty devotion to our relationship.

That will change, not a moment too soon.  “The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago.  The second best time is today.”

Some of the best moments of living have been in the company of trees.  In conversation, in moments of silence and peace, in times of desperation for some kind of direction.  I have prayed in the forest, laughed, grieved, planned for the future, talked into the quiet just to see if my ideas were worth having.  Trees absorb more than carbon dioxide, and they give off more than oxygen.  They stand as an organic testament of patience and empathy and, thankfully, forgiveness.  They are more than a plant or a place.  They are a living example of friendship.

Hope this finds you feeling your roots,

David

Copyright © 2025 David Smith