Swing Tree
"The trees you grew up with have not forgotten you." – Author Once Known
I am convinced trees have souls. They communicate and assist each other, even keeping the stumps of their comrades alive. Mother trees have been found to preference their own seedlings over others—”giving trees” for the next generation of saplings reaching for the sky. For the oldest, we humans are but passing visitors on their long journey, like hobbits amongst the ents.
I have loved many trees, but one has a special place in my own story. Just north of the farmhouse is a grove of what was once five sugar maples. In an aerial photograph from the 1940’s, these are already mature trees, offering shelter and shade. In the late 1960’s, they were struck by a terrible storm, scarring trunks and ripping off their tops. One succumbed, but the rest persisted despite, growing new tops and bearing their scars yet carrying on.
The largest was so big around, it would take four people to reach round her trunk. The base is wide and gnarled, with lumps and curls that knit into the ground like Grandmother’s arthritic hands. Looking up, the bending branches interlaced in a tapestry of rough bark and tangled limbs, the dappled greens easing summer’s heat and shading sunlight. In autumn, the leaves turned to flaming orange, red, and gold. When I think of the tree of life, this is the tree I have in my mind—a guardian, survivor, and stoic presence. I could sit at her base and look up into those branches for hours, listening to the red pine squirrels chatter and robins whistle and sing. An arborist visiting the farm estimated the tree could be 250 years old, which is a marvel considering the logging history of Wisconsin’s Northwoods.
When my sister and I were kids, Grandpa added a swing rope to one of the side branches, using the same method he had enjoyed swinging on as a kid. A rope is tied in a long U upon the branch, then a 2×6 board is cut with a V-notch on either end. This slips on top of the rope, so the rope rests in the notch on either side. The assembly is beautifully simple. I would swing for hours, sometimes looking towards the barnyard, but often looking out across the beautiful north field, which is the pasture for our sheep. The north wind would tease at my brown hair, my lanky, adolescent legs swinging.
While trees teach us about stability and resilience, they also teach us impermanence. One day, a terrible storm took our swing tree, the fierce winds changing directions so quickly amidst clouds as black as a Sharpie, it snapped that massive trunk right off like a head of broccoli. The great being landed with a terrible crash, limbs impaling the earth, branches shattering and sprawling across the gravel lane—the only place the massive canopy could have landed and not hit any fences or buildings. It took over a week of chainsawing to clear the road enough to drive through again.
I cried for the swing tree, the remnant of its trunk standing as an obelisk of scarred wood. Even the branch with the swing tied to it had fallen. But one tiny, side branch remained, scraggly and thin. The next year, that branch was filled with thousands of whirly-gig seed pods. Even when completely broken, the swing tree refused defeat. We saved many of those seeds, and descendants of the swing tree now grow much taller than me. But after a couple of years, even this branch no longer grew buds in the spring.
Now what I have of the swing tree are memories, pictures, the stump, and a warm fire in the wood stove in winter. If nature teaches us anything, it is to recycle everything. Nothing should be wasted, returned to the cycle of birth and death and regeneration. As strong as the swing tree appeared on the outside, her inside was rotted and soft, weakening her ability to withstand the storm.
The old stories also speak of this impermanence within our universe, for even Yggdrasil, the World Tree, is fated to die. This is not the end of all life but one more chapter closing and a new one beginning in the rubble that remains.
The next time you are in the presence of an ancient tree, touch the bark, feel the coolness of the shade, and look up through those marvelous branches. Soak in being in the presence of this great being as a small visitor, humbled by the majestic grace of slow determination to grow and reach for the sun. Thank you for all the memories, swing tree. I have certainly not forgotten you.
