Roots of Life

A little one comes. I’ve seen so many little ones over the years and everyone is precious.

           I remember the first time. I was just a sapling hidden in the undergrowth but the child saw me and cooed over me and talked to me and I felt loved. We grew together, that child and I. She came and visited often, told me her secrets and her wishes and so we grew. The nibblers of the forest passed me by so I grew tall and straight, reaching for the sky. Time passed and then the girl child came and brought her beau and introduced me to the man she loved. And he carved their initials into my bark. It didn’t hurt, merely tickled and I was proud to be included in their love.

           It was a time of great travail in the land. Brother fought brother, son fought father. The forest resounded to the hue and cry of war. Friend and foe alike hid amongst our branches, sweat and fear and blood fed the land. Time passed. The forest grew quiet again. The birds flew and butterflies flittered. Ants scurried and spiders spun. Life went on.

           Then she came again, holding a boy child by the hand. She leant upon me as she would a friend and I embraced her as I could. I felt her pain as she whispered to me. ‘He’s gone. He went to fight for a cause he believed in and never came back. What good is a cause to me and our son?’ The little lad held her hand and said, ‘I’m here, mommy, I’ll look after you.’ She pointed to the marks on my trunk and explained to her son, ‘This is where your daddy swore to love me forever, this mark’s our love token. While that mark lives your daddy lives, he will always be in our heart while that heart is there. No matter he is now dead and gone these years he is still here for us.’ So saying, they both hugged me hard and went on their way. They came often, my girl child and her family, I watched them grow and have children of their own, watched as my girl child became an old woman, bent and wilting. I heard her whisper ‘Goodbye, old friend, I’ll be with my man again soon. Thank you.’ I shook my leaves but I couldn’t stop her going, leaving me.

           I reached for the sky, around me my family grew, lived and died. Woodcutters came with their axes, studied me, shook their heads, murmured ‘Not yet.’ and moved on. People came and went, some stopped to rest beneath my branches, some just passed by, and I waited for my girl child to come again in vain.

           The birds came and found shelter among my branches and raised their families, squirrels came and chased one another through my leaves. I threw down my acorns to feed them and to hopefully sew for the future, for those to come after me.

           And the woodcutters came with their axes, looked me up and down and muttered ‘Not yet.’

           Then the boy child came – no boy now but a man grown bringing his lady. ‘Mother brought me here when I was young, this was her favourite spot. Dad carved their initials but the tree has grown too tall to see them.’

           ‘Then we will carve our own and our children will see them.’ And so they did. Not too deep to hurt me but lovingly and I accepted them. 

           Time passed as it always will. Seasons come and go, winter with its harsh winds and freezing ice and snow. I sleep through the winter, gathering my strength for the time to come. Spring comes and warms my roots and they start to stretch, sending life up my trunk, strengthening and filling my heart with songs of joy. Birds begin to search for their nests, hoping they have survived the winter winds and ice, and new nests are built. The woodpecker has begun to hammer at me, I don’t mind, they need a home and I like the company. New shoots from the acorns buried and forgotten by the squirrels begin to sprout and poke through the forest floor, I look on them with pride. People begin to walk the paths and I wait for the man child.  Summer follows, my leaves are full and bright, feeding me and making me strong and I reach for the sky. The chicks fledge and learn to fly – I tremble as they fall from their nests and sometimes tumble to the ground and sometimes fly to the sky.

           The man comes again, now with his lady and two little ones. They touch me with love and I shade them from the sun. They point out the carving and the boy child demands they have their initials carved and so they too become a part of me.

           Autumn and it’s time to gather my strength into myself. The birds have gone, they don’t need me now, the squirrels are busy gathering and hoarding. It’s time for sleep.  And so time passes. The seasons turn and the forest goes on.

           The woodcutters come with their axes, mutter ‘Not yet.’

           The man and his lady come but they are old now. They sit beneath my branches and hold hands. I hear their whispers and feel their love and their pain. The children come and lay flowers at my feet and I know they were coming no more.

           And so they came, my girl child’s children and their children and their children. And carved their messages upon my trunk. And time passed and the generations came and went, and the world turned and changed and changed. The forest began to shrink, the woodcutters brought nasty noisy smelly machines and cut down my brethren. People stopped coming to the forest which wasn’t a forest anymore, the squirrels stopped scampering through the trees, the jays and the magpies stopped their squabbling, other nibblers, cows and horses, chomped their way around me. Large machines flew overhead spewing vile smelling rain upon me. I was lonely, the birds still came but not so many, the insects for their young were more difficult to find so they went elsewhere to build their nests.

           I stand here now, all alone, one lone tree in the middle of a vast field. No-one visits me now, no-one whispers their secrets and wishes to me. My branches have become heavy and brittle but my leaves are still bright in the sun. 

           After many seasons of quietude, of watching the cows munch their way across the field, of the horses run with their young, people came again, but now they didn’t come to see me, they leant on me, they sheltered under my leaves but they were too busy with their writing and measuring. I felt nothing from them, they had no love for me in their hearts. And when they left I was sad and fearful of what was to come.

           What came, one gloriously sunny morning, my leaves beginning to lift, were machines, big noisy ugly smelly machines and men with yellow heads and heavy boots. The ground shook and my roots trembled and my leaves quivered. Noisy smelly people. More people, more yelling. People gathered around me, young and old surrounded me, holding hands and yelling and singing and crying. The waves of anger and anguish and love were smothering. And then in the quiet one of the yellow-headed men stepped forward.

           ‘The tree has to go.’ He stood solid and immoveable. ‘It’s in the way and it’s dangerous. It has to go.’

I looked around at my limbs lying broken and scattered about. The last storm had been vicious and had hurt me.

‘Excuse me.’ Someone stepped forward from under my branches. ‘We’ve just arrived here from the States and you’ll think this has nothing to do with me, but,’ his voice dropped into the silence, ‘we’ve come here specifically to find this tree. Whilst researching my family tree – and I don’t mean this one – and going through the family diaries I found a family tradition that every generation carved their initials into this tree. We,’ he indicated the little one by his side – so precious, ‘we wanted to do the same, to continue the tradition and now I get here just as you’re about to cut down my tree!’

‘It’s probably all those carvings that’s made the tree unstable.’ Someone called from the crowd. 

I reached out to the man and felt his connection – to my girl child, to this land, to the others that came before and I was glad. I sighed. The debate went on around me but I was tired. I looked upon the face of the man from a far-off land and knew my time was come. I dropped my bark at his feet and he saw the tokens he had come so far to see. 

The woodcutters came with their heavy noisy machines, looked at me and nodded. ‘It’s time.’