Shouldn’t there have been some sort of ceremony? A thoughtful circle of clasped hands or a joyful swirl of moving bodies, pouring forward gratitude for a life well lived, a job well done? If the animals had known this was coming would they have gathered at a distance and shook their heads in familiar disappointment at those ridiculous humans? 

She must have been well over one-hundred hundred years old, perhaps two. I wonder if Georgia O’Keefe painted under the cover of her cottonwood branches…she was in the sight-line of Mt. Pedernal’s flattened peak, after all. How many artists have featured her in paintings and photographs? I’d like to see those works carefully laid down in a crooked line, a creative chain reaching across the open field facing her, ending at the base of the towering bluffs that reflected the sinking sun at the close of each day. 

Trees have a way of following me, or maybe I follow trees. They have played supporting roles in my life from the beginning. My earliest memory is gazing up at a towering, heart-bursting green/brown column of glory reaching for the heavens as seen by my 3-year-old eyes. The tree was a redwood, silhouetted in a skylight cut into the roof of our living room which was nestled in a Marin County grove. Climbing the walnuts, oaks, and pines of my Northern California childhood was integral to my development and appreciation of the natural world.  

Instead of a conscious ceremony around her felling, there was a spontaneous eruption of clapping from a group of men gathered at a safe distance. I believe the assemblage was applauding the skill of the arborist who took great care to ensure that no one was hurt by the toppling of her gigantic trunk. But the cheering made my heart thud dully and I winced with the knowledge that this was a sacred moment, not one to be celebrated in jovial brotherhood.  

I named my first son after the enduring, stately California Cypress. Working to stay on good terms with the Pin Oaks and Sugar Maples surrounding my current home, I am well aware that the land we are borrowing for our house plot was at one point a vibrant, crowded Midwest hardwood forest. We are in debt to these life forms…humans need trees, desperately…for shelter, warmth, food, and oxygen. 

Let’s think of the thousands of seasons that passed while our Cottonwood grew and spread, seasons in which she played an integral part. The birds that needed every piece of her, the dust that was covered by her generous golden leaf snow, the countless insect lives and soil her roots held below. Children played in her shade, lovers kissed behind her trunk, and deer nibbled her bark. She survived the Ghost Ranch flood of 2015, and no doubt many other great forces of nature that have receded from present memory. 

I walked to her the next morning, unconsciously drawn to her pieces lying on the ground. Formerly grand, useful, alive, now separate, scattered, stagnant. Perhaps she carried a disease, perhaps it was her time…after all every life turns on the wheel of experience and circumstance. Deadwood supports life in ways that live wood cannot. Her trunk was sliced low to the ground, creating a smooth tabletop and infinite constellations of sawdust blanketed the ground.

I couldn’t easily count her rings it didn’t feel right to stand on top of what was left of her. Leaning down, I took a nugget of bark and needle-sized damp splinters scattered across my open palm. I’ll carry this piece of her with me as I journey on, knowing she played her part, allowing her a ceremony in my pocket and my heart.