Among the trees

Sometimes, a thing like this happens. I think of something I want to say, to write about. And I think about it a long time, going down many directions in my mind, meandering in places I did not mean to go. And while I am trying to get out of my fingers and the rest of my body an exquisite account of that beautiful idea I had glimpsed in daydreams, I hear a word or phrase that pulls me back on the path. It is actually the work of putting the words together that tell me what I was thinking, what I wanted to say. And this time, that phrase turned out to be the name of a Mary Oliver poem that I have loved, but now read as validation for the path I have taken, and of course, with awe for all the beauty of her words.

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The land I felt called back to, part of the land my grandparents farmed last century, is the two acres that I think of as “the woods, the creek, and the meadow.” The lot is four-sided, trapezoidal, with two sides bordered by roads. The woods edge along the slightly longer (slightly less trafficked) of the two roads, maybe a quarter to a third of the two acres. I do not think these woods were ever farmed, but the trees there are not so old to have been there when my grandparents began farming. I’ve never done a proper inventory of the trees there now but there are a lot of poplars and maples, small pines, and a few oaks.

A nameless creek divides the woods from the meadow. There are willows along the woods side of the creek. A lot of vegetation I’m still learning about lives on either side of the creek and the shape of the flow changes with the rains and the seasons.

The meadow begins on the other side of the creek and takes up most of the lot. The small house I built, to sleep and eat in while I am here, sits up on a slope at the far side of the meadow. A small stand of young black walnuts sits near the creek but along the other road, a very busy two-lane highway. Black walnuts are not great companion plants for some vegetables, notably, tomatoes, but that is a story for another time.

I love meadows, and this one in particular. After my grandparents stopped farming it, my father and my uncle became its caretakers, but mostly my uncle, especially after my parents moved away. My uncle had it mowed several times a year until about 10 years ago when he went to Tennessee to live with his son, my cousin.

By the time I felt ready to return to this place as a part-time resident, it was so overgrown I had to have it bush-hogged before anyone would come in to do a perk test. I have had it mowed sporadically since then. This field blooms into such a rich bouquet that my heart stops with wonder and gratitude to see the beauty of it. There is clover and Queen Anne’s lace and ironweed and thistle and so many grasses, and when it is waist-high, it gives shelter to bees and butterflies and so much I cannot see. I know that it tells a story about this land that I am not knowledgeable enough to translate. Not yet.

I am always seeking to learn more about how to contribute to the health of a planet undergoing an ecological crisis. I listen to Poor Prole’s Almanac podcast as part of this quest, and last July I heard Doug Tallamy, an entomologist, ecologist, and conservationist, talking about the benefits of native plants, and in particular, oaks. What I learned from him gave me new energy and a more focused plan for improving the ecological integrity of land I take responsibility for.

I’d love for you to listen to the whole of this episode yourself, but I will summarize here why oak trees are so important.

Because of caterpillars.

Caterpillars transfer most of the energy that plants harness from the sun to other animals. The number and diversity of caterpillars in any particular food web serves as an indicator for the health, productivity, and stability of that food web. More is better.

Oaks support more caterpillar species than any other tree: 950 nationally, 557 in the mid-Atlantic states, and 488 in my mountain house zip code.

Oaks are densely built, they sequester more carbon than other trees, hold it longer, and their large root system helps manage the watershed around them. They also provide beneficial pollen for native bees, though the bees do not pollinate the trees themselves.

This ancient tree can be found everywhere around the world, with 435 species in wide-ranging ecosystems. Though they are so critical to ecological health everywhere, in the podcast interview, Tallamy laments the current over-harvesting of oaks for commodities, such as fire wood, furniture, and barrels for aging whiskey and wine, or clear-cutting them to put up solar panels (!). Removing them from the landscape contributes to the climate crisis we are facing.

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I had found relatively few oaks growing in the woods near my creek. In his book The Nature of Oaks, (which I checked out of the library and read immediately after listening to the podcast), Tallamy tells of planting an acorn many years ago near the house he had just moved into, and where he still lives. He watched it grow into an adult tree, providing all the natural goodness this keystone species is capable of. I was so wanting to do something useful for the land while I was waiting for the house to be completed, I thought, why not plant some oak trees in the meadow along the creek line?

Oak trees not only attract many different bugs that feed many different birds, but they also provide acorns that are used as food by living beings, including humans. Acorns were a staple food for Indigenous people on this continent, and as the changing climate creates changes in agriculture, they may once again become part of the human diet. There are people looking for ways to cultivate oak trees with bigger acorns, anticipating the demand for this.

Trees grow slowly compared to bushes and flowers, so I likely will not see the full fruits of this task in my lifetime, but I’m ok with that. I would like to think my (now) adult children will want to be on this land at some point, but if not them, someone else, and if not humans, other beings will benefit.

So, last fall I collected acorns from the few oak trees on the other side of the creek and from my cousin’s oak trees a few counties over, and even a few from where I live, eastward. I tried to identify them by acorn and leaf shapes, but it was harder than I expected. I made my best guess and labeled each of the small pots I planted them in as red, black, and white oaks, and then left them on my back porch for the winter, watered them from time to time, and waited for them to grow. And waited. And waited. And waited. Winter is so long.

And then something small and green came up in one pot. I smiled. “Well, hello there,” I said, “so good to see you.” And then something came up in another pot, and it went from tiny to noticeably bigger quickly. The first one stayed small. Eventually I realized the first one was a weed, not an oak, but over the next few weeks, three more baby oak trees popped up through the dirt.

When they got a few inches high, I took them to the mountains for transplanting. I let them sit there in their pots for a bit while I figured out where they might live. I also found several oak saplings sprouting up on their own too close to the house to be viable, so I dug those up and put them in pots while discerning where to put them.

Life in the meadow was waking up from winter, and it needed some cutting back. I cleared out spaces for each of them and planted them in the rich red earth that in the last century produced corn, beans, strawberries, and tomatoes. What had been here before that? I wondered.

I put small fences around these young trees to protect them from the periodic mowing. I keep the weeds out from around them and mulch them and water them during dry times. Yes, I continue to talk to them to, and promise them my care as they grow. Some of them seem stronger and sturdier than others. I am watching out for them.

— o — 

Not long ago, I was on the meadow side of the creek’s edge taking photographs, and I ended up just sitting there for a while. I decided the woods are too overgrown now for me to cross over and take up my multiflora removal project. I put it on hold until the fall, and, to be honest, I felt relieved.

And I sit there, I hear in my heart, that this is ok with the woods. The land doesn’t need me to work so hard to prove I love it. It is growing just fine for the moment. It wants me to be here to enjoy it. And to love it and to take lovely photographs of it and have others love it. And I let that sink in. My heart feels lighter.

— o —

And as I began writing about the oaks and this moment by the creek, I remember these words from Mary Oliver that I have read many times before. I read them again and understand them in a new way, as if for the first time.

When I am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,

equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

they give off such hints of gladness.

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,

in which I have goodness, and discernment,

and never hurry through the world

but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out, “Stay awhile.”

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It's simple,” they say,

“and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine.”

(from Devotions: Selected Poems of Mary Oliver, 2017)

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Happy Solstice!

Summer Solstice in the northern hemisphere where I am,

And Winter Solstice in the southern hemisphere,

 where part of my family now lives!