Lessons from the Trees

Well, it’s pretty much official. We’re moving. 

We aren’t going far; only about half an hour from where we currently live, but still—a move is a move. You have to leave behind everything you love…and everything you don’t love but have come to tolerate. (I’m looking at you, really weird back door entrance.) We plan, Lord willing, to build a house. And function as our own contractors for the job. While raising two little ones.

Please say a prayer for us. 

What I’ll Miss

While there are tons of things I’ll miss about living here (most notably our neighbors, the memories we’ve made here, and the convenience of getting just about anywhere), one thing I’m sad to leave is our trees. 

We live in an old neighborhood situated in even older woods. I’m no dendrologist, but some of the trees around here are well over a hundred years old. In fact, my favorite tree in the neighborhood is easily twice that. It’s just a few streets away, so I make sure to pass it whenever I’m out for a walk or bike ride. 

I’m sure the owners of that property know my face by now. They’ve probably considered charging me with loitering and general creepiness when I slow my pace to a mere shuffle and crane my neck to a degree that would make an owl jealous. Or when I straight-up stop and take a picture of the tree. I really can’t help it. I love that tree. (It’s a white oak, for those who are curious.)

My yard may not have a centuries-old oak, but we do have several beauts. They fill our days with shade, beauty, and—in the fall—yardwork. I’m talking bags and bags and bags of oak, maple, and walnut leaves. But to me, it’s worth the effort because the trees are beautiful. 

Where We’re Headed

We decided to build on a piece of land that’s been in our family for fifty years. It’s adjacent to where my sister and her family live, which makes it delightful for many reasons, one of which is cousin play time and another is my brother-in-law’s grilling skills. (I love trees, but I also love steaks.) The land used to be a clear, 3-acre tract with a few small trees and plenty of black raspberry bushes, but those days are long gone. Now the property has gone to seed, quite literally. 

I beat my way through it early this spring before the leaves had begun to bud. It was slow going, the ground completely overrun with brambles, bushes, vines, and scrub trees. To my undiscerning eye, it looked like there were very few trees worth keeping. They all seemed thin, wimpy, or choked out. While I love the family legacy of our new land, I was sad to leave my beautiful, old trees behind only to level our new property and start from scratch.

The Difference Some Leaves Can Make

However. 

This week we fought our way down an overgrown path through the property, and everything was different. You know that terrible dream where all your molars are loose and they keep falling out when you try to talk, but then you wake up and find your teeth are firmly intact after all? …No? Well, then insert your own phobia here. The point is, that’s the kind of relief and joy I felt when I looked up at the big, beautiful, towering trees on our new land. We won’t have to level it after all! My molars are safe!

It’s a jungle, to be sure—a jungle of maple, oak, walnut, linden, poplar, and choke cherry, with a disproportionate amount of bittersweet vines and poison ivy strangling many a stately trunk. When it comes to taming that beast, we have our work cut out for us. But I’m so willing to tackle it. You know why? Because old trees are worth the work.

After all, I’m sure you know the saying: the best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago; the second-best time is today. But if a tree sprouted fifty years ago, that’s even better. 

Learning from Trees

Trees are great teachers. They’re wizened, soft-spoken, experienced. Their lessons are timeless and yet they change with the seasons. They’ve inspired countless books, poems, songs, adages, and even ancient mythology. There’s something universal in the study and love of trees. 

Lately I’ve mulled over one particular truth from these leafy tutors: trees are utterly untouched by the American obsession with haste. Trees never hurry. (Just ask Treebeard the Ent.) They grow gradually, painstakingly, inch by inch, year by year. Sometimes it’s enough to drive me mad, but it’s also a rebuke to my constant busyness. I don’t do anything slowly except eat; I’d be far better off taking a leaf out of a tree’s book.

The Watched Pot Versus American Culture

We planted a few ornamental trees in our front yard three years ago. Between storm damage, deer snacking on the bark, and a certain toddler driving his tractor over two bushes, they haven’t grown very much. Even so, I check the miniscule sprouts of new growth on my lilacs several times each spring.

But no matter how many times I breathe down their tiny trunks, looking for progress, they don’t grow any faster. If anything, they probably grow more slowly just to spite me and my obsession with progress. I want results NOW. That’s what America promises us, after all. Want to be skinny NOW? Take these pills. Want to eat NOW? Throw this in the microwave. Want to get there NOW? Take a jet. Want to know NOW? Google it. We are not a patient culture.  

But trees. 

Slow Growth

Trees gently, patiently, quietly remind us to slow down. Set up a hammock. Look up at the kaleidoscope of leaves and sunshine. Think about how long it took that tree to grow into the magnificent monolith it is today. And then realize that, for a tree and for us, good things take time. 

I’m bracing for this next season of life. Building a home will be busy, stressful, and probably unenjoyable at times. More than once I will grit my teeth (my safely-intact teeth) and wish it was already done. At times like that, I hope I will look around at the trees growing peacefully and take a deep breath. God determines our times and seasons. He causes things to grow inch by inch—trees, houses, and patience. Slow growth is strong growth, and I will choose to be thankful for that. 

Now please remind me of this when I’m up to my eyeballs in construction next year. Thanks.