I live in a remnant of a Ponderosa pine forest in Spokane County. Some of my grandchildren refer to my place as ‘Grandma Margy’s Mountain.’ My wanderings often take me to places within this unique spot on the globe that exude sacredness.
I’ll never forget the day I learned trees cry.
The morning was not unusually cold for April. There were still a few patches of snow lingering in shady places but evidence that spring was about to erupt was nearly everywhere in the forest. Even so, I donned my jacket, hat and gloves and ventured out the door.
I had not actually planned to ascend the North slope of the hill but I heard a noise coming from that direction. I followed the sound, trudging through the leftover deposits of winter, until I came to a stand of mighty pines. Was an animal wounded and crying for help? I didn’t see any tracks or signs indicating as such. The disparaging sound was almost human-like, yet unlike any sound I had ever heard from a person.
The closer I came to the sound it was as if the ground beneath me was shuttering, not shaking, but shuttering. When I reached the place from where the sound was most profound I stopped. The agonizing noise was coming from one big ponderosa pine. The bark was oozing. I touched the bark and it was warm.
When I looked up into its crown its needles were weeping droplets of ice. The tree was crying! Crying tears of ice!
It appeared the tree was raining ice drops but they were not like raindrops. They glistened in the tree, holding fast to the needles until they fell, hard to the ground. No other trees in this stand were exhibiting this phenomenon.
I ran back to my house, employed my 9 year old son to come with me because I wanted to be sure I wasn’t imagining the experience.
Together we rushed to the huge tree that was still moaning and crying tears of ice.
“How could this be happening, Momma?” my son asked breaking our silence and awe.
“I don’t know, dear but it seems the tree is sad.”
We removed our gloves and grasped each other’s hands. Still we were not able to totally encircle the massive trunk.
We embraced the tree and my son said, “Please don’t cry anymore, tree.”
We stood in reverence, with the tree shedding its tears of ice, until our feet were covered with the icy drops.
“Momma, look up at the top of the big tree. It is in that cloud.”
There was no wind or other clouds in the sky that morning: only the cloud that had engulfed the top of the beautiful Ponderosa.
Though we were drenched with the residue from the tree, it was not sticky but full bodied and gave a sheen to our faces and clothes.
Privileged, we watched the frosty cloud dissipate and the spectacle of the weeping tree fade. And the tree stopped crying.
We checked the tree all summer and it seemed to be doing well.
When the forest manager came to prune and thin our trees in the fall they came to the big tree and said, “What a shame. This tree will have to go.”
“NO, no I pleaded, not this tree!”
“But Mrs. Swenson, this tree is very sick. The other trees have been supporting it.
It will infect the entire forest if it isn’t removed.”
It was I that was crying now. I cried for days after the loggers carried the tree off my mountain. It seemed the hole in the forest where the tree had stood as long as I could remember was also a hole in my heart.
The forest has flourished however, and other young trees have gained prominence.
As my appreciation for all things living has grown, I understand the grief of the big Ponderosa and I know we all have a place and a time to be.
I have since learned there are scientific explanations to this phenomena of the ‘weeping tree’ yet the emotional impact of the personal connection with this partner in our world has guided me to understanding not gleaned from any other educational resource.
January 13, 2022
Margaret A. Swenson
Reader Comments(0)