My mother in law...the age old oak.

This tree had taken a beating the last few years.

Best I could tell it started three years ago when a wind storm came through and sheared off a branch that appeared to be fast bound to the trunk. The next year I noticed a heavy loss of leaves midsummer despite no visible disturbance or disease. This past year it stood tall in the spring, but its look was becoming ghostly grey, dying inside until it finally died recently.  The life of the trees all around it made its death stand out all the more.

The beating many trees take usually starts long before we see the symptoms.

It wasn’t until another wind storm blew through months ago that this age-old oak snapped in two, the top popping off like a dandelion. I noticed a hollowed out core, years in the making—how long—one couldn’t know?  The outside gave no indication of this deterioration.  The bark was intact, no dark cracks formed at its base, no open gloomy knotholes home to decades of tenant-coons.  It was a thing of beauty and strength right into its final years—it’s final months. At least on the surface of things.

But the inside was taking a beating, and after years of fighting the good fight, it couldn’t brawl anymore.  It went from leaves falling, to twigs snapping off, to branches breaking, to limbs cracking, to the trunk eventually sheering 20 feet from its grounded base. As sick as this tree was, it still had some sort of dignity that wouldn’t let it simply fall over, rotted roots flung into the air like a dirty half-crown of thorns.  It died standing up, falling apart only when taken apart.  It wasn’t going to go down without clinging to last-life. I’ve always honored trees that died standing up.

This last week I spent an evening with my chainsaw harvesting this tree bit by bit.  In each chunk of wood there was more energy and life waiting to be shared with the world.  It couldn’t produce oxygen anymore, but it still sure to give off heat in the days to come, warming hearths and hearts.  

When I’m sawing a tree that old, I can’t help but glory in it.  It’s been down here a while, living through epochs of time and witnessing moments in history that matter.  As the teeth of my chainsaw gnaw against its grain, moving from one ring of recent growth to an older, thinner, deeper ring, I honor that.  When I finally reach the last tight ring before cutting into the center of its birthday—its core—I back up and push it with my foot to see the circular mile-markers of time.

Except with this tree, as I moved from the fringe limbs to the girth of its stump, I increasingly saw the tolls of time, not just the rings.  I sawed through compost of where some infection began to bore out its vitals making it rely more and more heavily on the growth just under its bark.  Mind you, to the naked eye this tree looked like any other tree—its skin was tough—but the insides showed just how resilient and defiant and tenacious this tree had really been for longer than we could have ever realized from appearances.

With sweat pouring down my brow I finally made the final cut coming from both sides with my saw because my 18” blade wasn’t made to fell the radius of a 34” log.  The final cuts were a mix of white shavings and dark muck…both rich with nutrients.  Both speaking of life and death, and the life that comes from death.  Life left behind for things to grow in and be warmed by. Either by compost or ash, this tree would live on to nourish a new legacy of life in the dusty remains of its death.

I hit the kill switch on my chainsaw and stepped back to witness my work.  To see the breadth and length of this tree’s spatial influence in contrast to its surroundings.  To see how much it left behind to be harvested.

For as grateful as I am for this tree’s sacrifice, I couldn’t help but noticed the gap in the hedge where it once stood tall, branches once wide with wonder.  The opening left a shadowed absence that couldn’t be replaced, at least not in the remainder of my lifetime.  A few seedlings stand tall at 3’ tall poised to fill the gaping hole, but I—personally—will never see this dark cavity filled ever again. 

As I think of this tree today thanking it for its strength and life and regeneration, I mourn its loss. I miss it. 

I mourn her loss and I miss her.

-Written in honor of my mother-in-law, Kathy.  

This story is a real experience from this past week on my property, and seemed—to me—to be a parallel parable of mom’s life.  “We are still warmed by your left-behind-legacy and will do all we can to grow in the fertile soil of your rich story. We love you, mom.”