tree talk — Helen Washington

I have often written about the trees in my life, but I haven’t shared about one of the trees I frequently refer to as our Dr. Suess tree.

Perhaps my middle name shouldn’t be Lelia but Lorax.

I often feel like the Lorax who speaks for the trees.

I have written extensively about our maple tree and the tangled web of roots it has inflicted upon the interior and exterior of our home.

An additional fact we often forget is a year or two after planting our maple, the Friends of the Trees inquired if we would like a secondary maple on the opposite end of our parking strip, providing a matched pair of foliage.

We readily agreed as our first maple was still young. For whatever reason, this second tree did not take to the plot of earth. We are grateful as we can only envision our house hoisted from its foundation by tandem trees with mammoth root systems.

However, six years ago, the Friends of the Trees came calling again and we tempted fate by choosing a tree accurately advertised as a smaller variety.

One of the main reasons I chose this tree was because the description said it would produce flowers, berries, and possessed a distinctive bark.

Over the first couple of years, the tree flourished without a flower or berry in sight. It seemed to grow in its own distinct manner with spindly, squiggly branches pointing in different directions, thus the nickname of a Dr. Seuss tree. It looked a bit nonsensical to me.

I have scoured my photos and have been unable to find a photo of the initial planting of our Seussical tree. One photo I can share was during the early months of the pandemic. The weather was beautiful and yet neighborhoods were mainly behind closed doors. On one particular sunny day, our street became full of cautious and distanced activity.

One street away, a couple was attempting to relocate a bee hive from their tree. The swarm of bees proceeded to relocate to our across-the-street neighbor’s tree. There was plenty of mayhem, beekeepers arriving, and neighbors with ladders trying to be helpful. The additional commotion caused the swarm to move and adopt our Seuss tree as its landing zone.

My camera roll is full of videos of the beekeepers removing the swarm. This was high drama and excitement for the solitary confinement of those early months of the virus.

The mission was accomplished and the bees were captured. I will add this excitement created online postings and we discovered anew the great value of bees as bee poachers made attempts but were thwarted.

We have had several opportunities to speak with an arborist about our maple tree. Despite the need to repair our driveway, walkway, and sidewalk, we wanted to make sure the tree would not be left unstable, damaged, or potentially die.

A few months after new concrete was poured, I won’t describe how we discovered our sewer and water lines needed replacing, we met with our arborist again. At the end of our conversation, I happened to ask him about our other tree.

This consultation occurred in November. I inquired about the lack of flowers and berries. I also asked why this particular tree would not drop its leaves during the fall or winter. He expressed that the tree might not be flowering due to the sex of the tree. He also stated how trees don’t drop their leaves until it's time or ready.

To me, this tree looked very ugly when it was full of dry, brown brittlely yet hardy leaves when surrounded by the typical barren branches of other trees.

I will admit both Carl and I had run our hands along a branch or two to see if we could hasten the process, to no avail.

Pictured below is Seuss during the beginning of a dose of winter as the birds gorge themselves on seed.

After the arborist gave his assessment of our Seussical tree, I sighed and halfheartedly accepted the situation.

This past weekend, I happened to spot leaves taking flight in front of our house. As I looked closer, Seuss’ leaves were beginning to release and descend in early March, the first Sunday of Lent.

There was a firm breeze but nothing like the 40-plus mph winds of February that created havoc all across the city. The leaves of this particular tree didn’t budge during that windstorm.

I took a few close-up photos of the tree with some leaves still tightly affixed to branches.

I wonder if I should be more like this nonsensical tree.

Am I always in a rush to get to the next season?

Or do I think I am the boss of assigning seasons?

Do I look around and see others in the season I believe I should also inhabit but possess only proof to the contrary?

Do I view the dry, dead, brittle parts of my life as ugly, without any possibility of redemption?

Am I prone to try to grasp those dry places between my hands, attempting to loosen their grip?

I have looked at our Seuss tree as less than because it hasn’t grown the way I expected or produced the appearance and fruit I felt promised.

It wouldn’t obey my directives and instead charted an individual course.

I look at Seuss differently today.

I see the smaller amount of remaining brown leaves before my eyes and they don’t look as displeasing as before.

They have a purpose.

Perhaps the purpose is designed to protect new growth.

How fitting for my eyes to be opened during Lent, a time of walking towards the eventuality of death yet being tightly gripped by hope.

Maybe my tree beckons to be renamed Lorax because this tree speaks to me.

May we allow our seasons to move at their appointed times and continue to be anchored in deep abiding hope.

May we see the imprints of His hand on our lives.

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.”

Ecclesiastes 3: 11

(How fitting for this post to be finished on what is considered five-years since the beginning of the pandemic. Oh, how much we have witnessed, learned and hopefully grown.)