A quiet gravel driveway turns and meanders before rising up to a small clearing nestled amongst the black walnut (Juglans nigra) and oak trees (Quercus sp.). In the driftless hills of Wisconsin, such a site is hardly uncommon, but these trees proved to be something special for me. These trees, with deep burrowing roots and branches stretched taut overhead, were fuel that warmed our hearth, jungle gyms during hours of play and pretend, shade against the relentless sun, hands holding the Earth in place, and wizened figures who shared so much knowledge about the world they grew within.
There is a saying about a tree falling in a forest without anyone to hear, but I am more concerned about how we fail to listen to the tree even as we stand right beside it. The natural world teaches, even when we humans appear to be unable or unwilling to listen. We must slow our pace to that of a waning moon, open our eyes like those who wander in night’s darkness, and accept the wisdom of the Earth since its birth over 4 million years ago. I find that when I do so, the trees have extraordinary lessons to teach.
Dig your roots in deep…
My parents built my home with the intention of staying. With each careful decision – placing a wall, adding a chicken coop, sowing a garden – they dug their roots a little deeper into the rich soil. Our house has been a work-in-progress since before I was born. At age 22, I wonder if I will ever see the day that marks it complete. Like trees growing up from seed, the process is slow yet deliberate and determined.
As young saplings, hickory trees (Carya sp.) also appear to get off with a slow start, but looks can be deceiving. They may not have much to show with growth above ground, but beneath the soil these saplings are hard at work, meticulously developing a deep, robust taproot system. The little sapling stays true to its course, sending its energy below ground even as surrounding saplings of other species are unfurling bouquets of tender leaves and stretching up toward the sky. But a young hickory sapling resists the temptation of flashy shows, knowing that there is more than meets the eye. Their deep roots will steady them as they grow taller, and when a gusting storm blows through the forest years later, that young sapling will continue to stand tall and steady with its roots firmly in the ground.
...While also stretching upward to new heights
To the unsuspecting eye, it may appear that trees have limited freedom: with roots anchored in the ground and branches drawn upward to the sun, even the most rebellious trees can’t step too off of this established growth regime. But in their own way, trees too have to find their own path.
In Wisconsin, an oak tree (Quercus sp.) will likely look very different if it is growing in a savanna compared to woodlands. In woodlands, trees are more densely packed together. Much like children in a large family competing for a busy parent’s attention, a sense of competition forms between the trees. Each tree needs resources – nutrients, water, sunlight – and when there are too many other trees around, these resources become limited. In order to survive such cramped conditions, the trees have to make choices. Each one elbows its branches into available space in search of a glimpse of sunlight. For these trees, the fastest way to reach the sunlight is by growing thin and straight upward to the source. It is a battle of resilience, speed, and strength, with those too slow or too daunted by the shade of others left in the dark.
The first time my dad pointed out a black oak (Quercus velutina) to me in the forest, I could not believe that this tall trunk belonged to the same species that I could picture standing stately in the rolling pastures of the countryside around my home. Only when he held up a leathery leaf with the familiar jagged lobes of an oak did I accept this strange twist of events.
Oak savannas are both a characteristic and endangered landscape in Wisconsin. In these ecosystems, which require fire to manage, trees grow dispersed with grasses and herbs dominating the ground beneath. Without other trees to rub elbows with, open-grown trees have the sun’s undivided attention. They have the luxury of slow, deliberate growth, and their path is rarely a straight one. Each branch of a tree is free to bend and twist as it identifies its own path. The tree is free to unfold its wings of branches at lower heights and create the stout, gnarly oak trees that dot the familiar landscape.
I am extending my own branches outward, with no knowledge of what may lie ahead to cause me to twist and turn another way. My only hope is that one day I will reach a wizened old age, with wrinkles tracing my skin and grey threading my hair like the worn bark of an oak tree. When I look back at the paths I have taken and the heights I have traveled, I will know that the life I chose was uniquely mine.
Support your community
Nature is unequivocally more complex than first meets the eye. Above, I described the image of trees battling it out over limited sunlight and resources. A fight in which only those best adapted to competitive survival will prevail, with cracked branches and rising over the weak simply unfortunate consequences of war.
The rest of the story, however, is full of support blossoming below ground. Mycorrhizal fungi live on the root systems of trees in a symbiotic relationship, or mutually beneficial arrangement that helps both the tree and the fungus. The fungus has thin fibers and a large surface area that make them natural scavengers. They are able to reach nooks and crannies too small for a tree’s root system and absorb more water and nutrients to pass along to the tree. In return for this service, the tree pays the fungi with sugar and carbon homemade through photosynthesis.
Not only does this relationship help the fungi and tree, but it also connects and supports a whole network of fungi and trees. Through mycorrhizal fungi networks, trees can share resources to support one another. When a tree is dying or a young sapling needs a bit of a boost to get started, the other trees can route some of their own resources to it. These donations and mutual connections allow the trees to thrive together in a stronger community ecosystem. Additional research shows that these fungal networks even offer a form of communication. When a tree is under attack by an insect or other threat, it can send out alert signals, like a tornado siren warning of an incoming storm. The trees connected through the network can receive this warning and put up defenses in preparation for danger.
We are all connected in this web of relationships. Many in the United States place a high value on independence and individualism, but this is just an excuse to ignore the fact that we – humans, animals, trees, fungi, the earth – are all so deeply connected. Someone who calls themself independent still relies on other humans: the doctors who cure diseases or manufacturers building our infrastructure. An independent person relies on the sheep whose wool warms them with a sweater. They rely on the trees filtering water to drink and exhaling oxygen to breathe. They rely on the rocks that make up this Earth and the forces moving it steadily around the sun.
The COVID-19 pandemic has illuminated many shortcomings of the current economic and social systems we are operating within. Despite the incomprehensible pain and suffering caused by COVID-19, it has also offered an opportunity for true solidarity and community-building. From financial support for rent payments to passing along job opportunities and donations of food, the positive support that swelled out of an unprecedented situation should show us what true community can look like. It is something we can build without a pandemic looming overhead.
Even in the land of trees this world is far from a utopia; for all of the sharing of resources and warnings, there is also selfishness, disloyalty, and competition. Like forests, we have the capacity to help others or to shade them out in our rush to rise to the top. We have the opportunity to collaborate or to exploit. The world is not perfect and there will always be mistakes, but a forest of trees working together will stand longer and stronger than those working alone.
Leave a lasting legacy
Time moves differently for humans and trees. Trees dug their roots into the soil as newly evolved organisms millions of years ago. As a species, human beings have had a much shorter time calling Earth home, and the length of our individual visit is much shorter as well.
The coast redwood (Sequoia sempervirens) lives an average of 500 to 700 years old, with some cases of trees living over 2,000 years. When humans are settling down to enjoy the late golden years of their lives, a coast redwood of the same age is still sitting at the children’s table at family dinners.
So many of us have aspiring dreams of changing the world – of finding a cure for cancer, promoting world peace, becoming President of the United States, of doing something that creates a better life for everyone. How ambitious we are to tackle such momentous problems during our short lifetimes!
Conversely, a tree’s legacy is simple. As a tree drops leaves and branches or tips over upon death, the organic matter that made up the tree begins to slowly decay. Quietly, nutrients are relinquished and reabsorbed in soil. This soil, thanks to the value and sacrifice of past generations, provides an enriched habitat for a new seed to thrive.
The past generations in my family may not have changed the world. Tracing along the lines of my family tree I can find farmers and miners, but no mention of royalty or revolutionary academics. Still, it is them I have to thank for my own existence as a small seed in this vast world. Just as I look toward my parents and grandparents for guidance through life, I also turn to the trees, observing their rough, withered skin and years of slow growth that have withstood the test of time. As the foliage turns deep crimson and yellow and production begins to slow, I will slow with it and listen to what trees have to offer.
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