12.17.09 Maxwelton Journal-Felling Trees
Maxwelton Journal|The dream begins on a difficult uphill slope, with doing things I never thought I’d have to do. Some trees need to be cleared from the site where we will build our home–mostly alder grown old and at the point of breaking off and careening like missiles into the ground, through a roof, or a car. I’ve seen many broken off alders jutting out of the ground in the woods. Christopher and I have had long conversations about clearing trees, with me mostly wanting to leave everything, and him wanting to clear widely for light. We reached a compromise, and are clearing a bit more than half an acre for safety. Still, I am struggling with many complicated feelings. It was so much easier when my consciousness was less developed and I thought of trees as just things.
We prayed for the trees, conducted ceremonies, lit incense. We determined to use all parts of the tree, to waste nothing. Don, the arborist, came, and was surprisingly gentle and aware. As I watched the first trees come down, I thought I was hearing God speak. It’s not something one easily forgets. I thought of the stick used in Zen practice, the keisaku, and of how that smack on the shoulder of a drooping meditation student helps her stay alert. Watching a tree fall had the same effect on me. I was at the far end of one such tree, and it was as if it was coming at me in slow motion, the branches snapping off, the limbs flying up–the violence and thunder of its descent. It lay on the ground, a fallen soldier in death throes, and then it settled. I was alert, utterly without thought and in the moment.
Hearing how heavy a tree is by listening to it hit the ground helped me fully appreciate its strength for the first time. It seems so unlikely that something that heavy can be upright, can withstand winter storms and wind like we have here, without being buttressed or supported or reinforced by some sort of complicated system of engineering and rebar. Indeed, it does the opposite of buttressing and opens its arms to the elements. A tree is a standing miracle. It’s impossible. It stands in opposition to all common sense, defying gravity and building codes. That kind of upright strength is unfathomable, and watching it fall, I felt like the puny human that I am.
I’m trying to think of resilience, of things coming back, of floorboards and handrails lasting many years, of a handle on a door, of walls and board and batten. I tell the trees how they will go on in another form. But I am troubled. Taking life to make my life better–how is this justified? And part of me knows that this has always been going on, and that I just haven’t seen it so intimately before. I’ve moved into houses already made, places where others have already done all the damage, and things are long since gone or grown back. Like the packaged chicken one buys from the grocery store, the blood is always on someone else’s hands. But is it, really? We are the ones eating the chickens and living in the houses.
We’ve promised to plant new trees for all of the ones taken. A man who works nearby tells me about how this forest needs clearing for the health of the remaining trees. Another man comes by and compliments the ring of cedars the house will now be encircled by. We are beginning to see where the new trees will go. New light floods into the area. But it is still a mess, and I am eager to clean up the fallen trees.
Last night Christopher and I both woke up and were unable to sleep, both so deeply effected by the chaos of this part of the process. He will be happy when it’s cleaned up and the evidence is stacked neatly, the wood milled, the plans laid out. He decided to do Tonglen for the trees, and I just felt the sadness in my heart, and did my best to try to shift the vision. It’s hard to reconcile wanting to create a space for healing with what we are doing now.
It’s important to witness what we do that enables us to live in the way that we do. I doubt I will ever be able to use a sheet of paper in the same way again, or ever act in a careless manner again about how much I recycle or use paper products. Like seeing the body of a loved one, witnessing the effects of what we do is essential in coming to terms with what is living now. Watching Don work, I came to appreciate his trade. How he aimed his gaze at where he wanted the tree to land, how he perfected the trajectory using wedges, accounted for wind direction. The wind has been blowing up from the south–a warm Chinook wind, and I feel impotent and helpless as I mark off plants I want him to be careful around–ferns, oregon grape. I’m told they’ll come back. I’m told about how strong their roots are, how resilient. My hands are covered in dirt. Another tree goes whomp, vibrates through the duff and through roots of other trees still standing. Leaves fall. Birds scatter through the newly created brush, gathering seeds, almost eager. I imagine they chastise me. There is no excusing this. There is no real mitigation. It’s a sin against the earth that we have to live with now, and I’m feeling it fully, feeling it in my deepest being, resolving to work ever harder to restore, redress, and heal places that have gone under in much more thoughtless and aggressive ways.
