Asking For A Tree's Forgiveness This Rosh Hashanah
We’ve lived on our block for 25 years. Our town is a designated tree city, and this is apparent in the older part, where we live. Mature trees take up yards and sidewalks, crowd the sky, and house any number of birds, insects, and squirrels. Of all the trees on our block, one in particular has shaped our life on Venice Street.
For more than two decades, the willow has been our seasonal harbinger. In winter, her branches poked sharp against the early darkness. In spring, tender sprouts faithfully returned. In summer, olive green leaves took over the sky and offered shade for our western-facing home. Fall, the yellow-leaved branches snapped to the ground at the first early snowfall or autumn wind. Hawks and turkey vultures took turns perching on the one bare branch at the highest point.
One night in late July, I woke up to the sound of Callie, our border collie, barking. I shushed her, but she continued. I reached over to my husband’s side of the bed. He wasn’t there. I stumbled out of bed and into the living room, where Callie was staring out the window.
I squinted and saw what looked like an episode of Stranger Things. Enormous bright lights beamed at a massive section of the willow tree sprawled across our street. The entire front section of the tree had snapped off and crashed on top of our neighbors’ two cars.
“I can’t believe you slept through that,” my husband said. It had not only woken him up from a dead sleep, but he’d screamed out at the thunderous crash. I suppose if anyone were to ask me if a willow tree fell on our block, would I hear it? I’d have to say no.
In the light of the next morning, we could see the tree’s wound. Termites. Less snowfall in the suburbs, coupled with drier and hotter summers, provided the perfect environment for termites to inhabit the willow’s trunk. In fact, research shows that increased termite activity is caused by climate change.
The termite’s impact on the willow tree only came to light after the tree broke in half. I remembered the last fall when a wind gust took down a 40-foot blue spruce, its root system shallow and dried.
The rest of the willow would have to go.
Two months later and three days after Rosh Hashanah, a tree removal service arrived.
First to be cut were the branches, still covered with leaves, a few of them turning that certain yellow that Colorado is known for. My husband retrieved a number of them. With Sukkot only a little more than a week away, I tucked them under our lilac bush to keep for our sukkah. The willow branches, along with the lulav, etrog, and myrrh, gave me a glimmer of hope and renewal, even as we prepared to say goodbye to our old friend.
I was soothed to see the tender care the team took with every step of dismantling the willow, including talking to the tree. Their attention reminded me of taking the torah out of the ark: Of raising it, a moment that always fills me with both trepidation and excitement, as if the tree of life itself is on display. The process also reminded me of the care you give to the body of someone who has died. I found myself silently reciting the Mourner’s Kaddish.
When a significant section of the tree was lowered down, the workers were visibly shaken. The atmosphere was both sacred and methodical. Throughout it all, the hawks and vultures circled the tree as different kinds of witnesses.
Almost every day since we’ve lived on this block, I take a walk in our neighborhood. I love keeping track of the daily, seasonal changes in every yard. The trees are more than landscaping. They are my neighbors, my deep-rooted friends. But our neighborhood, like our climate, is changing. Small houses on our block are selling for four times their worth and are being flipped with little care for the unique nature of our neighborhood.
Our town’s officials boast that we’ve surpassed the 100k residents mark, and there’s talk of building new homes and apartments with more density in mind. More and more cars clog our streets. More and more older trees are being cut down. A recent Colorado State University study shows that our forests are struggling to keep pace with climate change and all that comes with those changes, including wildfires, insect infestation, and tree diseases. Not to mention that older and dying trees are releasing more carbon dioxide than they are storing.
We cannot ignore that our human presence and our habits have an impact on our environment. At least I can’t ignore it. And while I can now see more of the sky, I know that this view has come at a steep cost, more than shielding our house from the hot sun. I miss the turkey vultures scouring the asphalt for street kill. I miss the scampering sound of squirrels chasing each other up and down the bark. I miss my willow tree friend, one who I counted on to help me mark a different kind of time, one that is more connected to our shared source, like our Jewish life and rituals.
I want to believe the city is starting to get the impact of rapid growth. This spring, small trees were planted along the easement areas up and down our block. A small Kentucky coffee tree is growing where the willow tree lived. It is small and spindly, but it is strong. It bends in the wind with resilience and growth.
It is the month of Elul. I’ve begun preparing for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur — the time of year when we reflect, take responsibility, and ask forgiveness — it is time to ask forgiveness from the planet. Rabbi Josh Breindel of Congregation Beth El in Sudbury, Massachusetts, wrote this about the holy path of teshuvah and our responsibility to our shared home:
“The Rabbis tell us that we must not spoil the earth. Our scientists tell us that our actions are leading to ruin. The holy path of teshuvah, of honestly assessing the impacts of our actions, is the only path that will lead us to blessing. We must recommit ourselves to being good stewards of the earth, lest there be none to repair our world after us.”
This year, instead of heading to the aspen grove, I’ll start on the street where I live.
Oh, Lisa, what a beautiful article! We have also lost some dear tree friends over the past two years and the loss is tremendous. Thank you for articulating what I’ve been feeling. Shanah Tovah!