(Orignally published via Facebook on September 9, 2010)

“For in the true nature of things, if we rightly consider, every green tree is far more glorious than if it were made of gold and silver” – Martin Luther

I have always lived among trees. From the oak, walnut and almond orchards of my hometown, to years of camping in forests of sequoias and redwoods, to the firs and cedars of my current home in the Pacific Northwest, trees have always been part of my personal provincial landscape. I feel oddly uncomfortable in barren terrain, and climbing above treeline on mountaineering adventures is always a mystical process of leaving the known and familiar. Given this historical grounding, it seemed reasonable that I felt a bit of trepidation when we decided to remove two ailing fruit trees from our yard this summer.

In discussing the proposition with friends and neighbors, I found that while they generally agreed with my reasons for wanting to do such a thing, they were nearly all hesitant to actually endorse the action, as if they might later be found complicit in some misdeed. What drives this uneasiness when it comes to removing trees? While there is arguable nobility and moral clarity in the sacrifice of a diseased tree to save companions or the larger forest, any lesser objective seems to speak to more superficial motives. In one sense, the felling of a tree can be considered a simple act of industry: the conversion of raw materials into either fuel or the constituent elements of another structure. Rearranging the arboreal topography to improve a view or to create a more pleasing visual prospect nudges our aim more in the direction of selfishness. Removal to arrest spreading or surfacing roots that threaten driveways or encroach on buried pipelines applies at least the façade of justified utility over self-interest, as does taking out a storm-weakened tree located too close to the house for comfort. Yet somehow even the most justified and defensible actions relative to trees can still leave us with tinges of guilt and even grief.

I think the wariness comes from two main sources. I believe that to some degree we each harbor the notion that we cannot act against nature with impunity, and thus we inherently fear karmic consequences. Eastern thought applies as much import to the intent as to the action, and I think this compels some of us to move more slowly and deliberately when it comes to permanently altering the landscape. Removing a tree is not a choice that can be undone.

I also believe that we see trees as essential symbols; ancient emblems of endurance and permanence. Throughout history we have accorded them the power to house spirits and grant wishes, and have made them the center of myths and even religions. We wrap ourselves in their metaphor, and speak of “branching out” and of “putting down roots.” As a result, we have become appropriately uncertain about imposing our will on them. They are living things of natural beauty, that over time have staked a literal and binding claim to the space they occupy. Whether planted with a gardener’s conscious intent, or a grown from a serendipitous wind-blown seed, they chronicle the years with undulating rings and soundlessly churn away in their timeless photosynthetic rhythm. They are watchers and guardians; silent observers of the parade of time. They offer us myriad gifts, from scalable geometries that allow fleeting escapes from gravity, to aesthetic beauty, functional shade, and even nourishment in the form of fruit and oxygen. Even in deconstructed death they have the ability to warm our homes and cook our food. They embrace the seasons and bend to the light without complaint, and yet their reward is often to succumb to infestation or a landscaper’s whim. On some level, we potentially equate their destruction with irreverent waste and desecration, as in the tearing down of a venerable old building of historical significance.

The two trees — a fruitless plum and a multi-varietal pear — are gone now, brought down with a violent and jarring swiftness. The maple, dogwood and holly in the back yard can certainly breathe easier and gather more sun in the absence of the pear, and the evening light coming in the front windows is now softly abundant and unfiltered by the plum. But in the spaces where these two natural edifices spent nearly half a century, there remains a silence born of sadness and a newly-wrought incompleteness; an almost palpable sense of what was. By any measure or reckoning, their removal is ultimately a loss.

(originally published via Facebook on August 30, 2010)

This weekend I was acutely aware of the passage of time. Friday marked the twentieth anniversary of Stevie Ray Vaughn’s death, and as I stared at my idle and dusty guitars it occurred to me that I have now accumulated an impressive and ever-expanding collection of memories that are more than twenty years old. The thought endured Saturday morning as I moved and stacked firewood for the coming winter, and I could tell the weather now has the slightest chill to it, and the local trees are starting to show hints of fall color. I have very distinct childhood memories of going to the Sierra Nevada foothills every fall and clearing brush for firewood, watching my father and uncle wield chainsaws like paintbrushes, nimbly limbing and sectioning the fallen timber into fireplace-sized logs, and scribing a large “X” on the end of each log to help in splitting after the wood had seasoned. My father passed away more than twelve years ago, and I can’t as much as look at a firelog or a woodpile without thinking of him.

Saturday night we stopped by the J&M Café and Cardroom for dinner on our way to the Sounders soccer game. The J&M was the first bar I ever visited in Seattle, another event now separated from the present by more than twenty years. For many years the J&M was a regular stop on our Pioneer Square social circuit, but I don’t think I’ve been there in nearly ten years. Very different now. Walking back through Pioneer Square after the game, we were dismayed at the number of stores and clubs that were closed or had turned over, and were further saddened that in some cases we couldn’t recall exactly what had been there before.

Sunday night we had a woman that Jess knew professionally and her husband over for drinks and appetizers on the boat. The sun is setting earlier and earlier now, and we had to don sweaters and fleeces before long. From among the glasses of wine and stories of travel and sailing it emerged that not only did she know the place where I spent most of my teenage years, she had actually attended our cross-county rival school and graduated the same year, and that at some point in time nearly thirty years ago, she and I stood on opposite of sides of the same high school football field in a small town in Northern California, a world away from our lives now.

I certainly believe that you can go home again, that the past is a worn and comfortable mantle made all the more endearing by its threadbare complexion, but there is danger in looking back too often or lingering too long. I suppose the trick is to give the past its rightful due, but also to accept the here and now, conscious that the current moment holds the next twenty years of memories.