Trees and Starting Over

Trees are on my mind lately. I'm reading this book Edible Forest Gardens, and finding out how little I really know about trees. I started the book thinking mainly of the edible, the fruits and nuts, but as it turns out, if you want to grow a forest, you have to think about the entire tree. Fancy that. So every few pages, I get jolted by some strange new feature of these silent giants, or the creatures they rely on to survive.

For instance, I'm used to trees losing their leaves every year. But they also lose roots. They can lose twice as much biomass through root dieback as through leaf drop. It all happens out of sight, but there are all these dead roots under there, slowly decomposing. And then they start over.

I never really thought about it, but that's a lot of work. A whole new set of leaves, and on top of that (or underneath), all kinds of new roots. Every year. I think of trees as stable; that's probably one reason I've always loved them. They grow and grow, a bit every year, and soon they're the tallest creatures on the planet. But at the same time, it's like they rip out half the rooms in the house and remodel every year.

An ecologist can offer reasons why this is a sensible system, but to me, it's suddenly a metaphor about the balance between your growth and your foundations. Leaves and roots are about growth, about soaking up the sun's energy. It's like trees have to keep starting over in how they get things done.

They don't change fundamentally -- they don't sprout mouths and stomachs. But every year, even a twisted old crone of an apple tree suddenly decks herself in fresh pink blossoms, like a grandmother dressed for a wedding. Try to find some old trees in blossom this spring; their beauty can pierce you, like a shaft of light breaking in from some other firmament.

But they can't grow those new blossoms unless they drop the old ones. There are many ways to think about change and its pains, but I find this one peculiarly encouraging. All this time, I've thought of trees mainly as stable, and huge, and really good at what they do; which they are. Their foundations are solid. The trunk and the main branches and roots keep getting bigger. They're not going to lose heart and take to shrubbery. And yet, they can only keep becoming more what they are by letting go of an awful lot of work every year, and starting all over. Those old leaves just aren't going to catch the sun anymore. Ditch 'em. Grow new ones. Try again. And the whole tree grows.

If you're a writer, that carpet of dead leaves on the floor looks uncannily familiar. Well, good. It works for the trees.