Deep cuts
We had four dead or dying trees that we needed cut down. We got multiple bids. We researched reviews. And at 10:41 yesterday morning, I found myself running out the door because the crew was cutting down the wrong tree.
It was too late. I was yelling at the crew, partly to be heard over the sound of the crane and the wood chipper. But also because the realization was sweeping over me that their error was both wholly avoidable and impossible to undo.
I confirmed on two separate occasions which trees to cut down. It’s written explicitly in the contract. I checked in with the owner and the crew this morning when they arrived. But the tree is still gone.
Everyone is safe. No one was hurt. This is thankfully not a piece about human life or death issues. But I’m still sadder than I expected.
Tree grieving
I might be overreacting. I feel an odd sense of loss. If I plant a like-for-like replacement tree tomorrow, I will die before it reaches the same height or age. If the tree lived for 70 years (I couldn’t count the rings), it logged 613,200 hours. It was gone in minutes. It took more than one million times longer to create than to destroy.
Is this true for anything else? My grandmother-in-law would famously tell people to eat slowly at family gatherings because of how long it took her to make the food. I imagine the tree whispering to the arborist, “Cut slowly. It took me nearly a century to grow this wood.”
How long would the tree have lived? Supposedly Norway spruce can last for 300 years. Nothing lives forever. But lives cut short are often sad, avoidable, surprising.
Not too long ago I read Braiding Sweetgrass. It’s worth reading. It’s equal parts botany and poetry. Today reminded me of the lessons in its pages.
I don’t feel guilty when I buy lumber from the hardware store. Does that make me a hypocrite? Or is it to be expected that I can only understand the loss of nature on a personal, individual level?
I think I’ll be figuring out how to feel and what to learn from this experience for a while.