Mourning ritual for trees

It occurred to me instead of finding fault with the city, I could have faith in the city’s arborists.

The news came from a neighbour who’d exclaimed in passing, “Did you hear about the trees?”

I hadn’t.

The neighbour went on to tell me the city had cut down the Red Maple trees a block over from our street.

The world stopped for a moment.

I asked if they knew why, or had any more details; but that was all they knew.

These trees had been there for ages. Every summer, these exquisite trees — which lined one side of a block, just a street over from our building — these trees, expressed themselves with the most brilliant canopy of small red Maple leaves.

Then later in the season, all the leaves made their way down to the sidewalk, one upon the other to lay a carpet of gold, crimson to dark burgundy, fading slowing under foot, until late in the winter.

It really was a magnificent affair, and I think many of us in the neighbourhood walked that way just to experience the magnificence of these very trees and their leaves.

Leaves of one Red Maple tree on the corner, in early winter, as an example of the carpet which earlier in the season was much more vibrant and colourful..

It was confusing thinking about how the city could justify taking down 7 of the 10 total trees lining this small stretch of our neighbourhood street, so I decided to leave that question alone. It was likely the arborists had good reason to take the trees down. And who was I to argue with their wisdom? Anyway, the trees were already cut down.

Shaken and full of dread, I walked past the carnage as I visited the stumps, standing four feet above ground seeming taller with the sidewalk concrete smashed all around each of the tree stumps and roots pulled up and mangled, many of the roots cut and hanging about, intermingled with sawdust and leaves left over from the season’s shedding.

Tears hadn’t yet fallen from my eyes. It was cold and the sky ominously white and cloudy, and I’d pulled my sweater up around my neck as I walked across the street to see the other tree stumps. There was a big lump in my throat and I had the sense of being in shock as I traipsed home to a hot cup of tea.

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As the day went on, I couldn’t sit still with the vision of the tree stumps, cordoned off by the city’s yellow “caution” tape, and white and orange striped barriers. The loss of the trees was hanging over me, and as the light of day began to wane, the fire inside me grew hotter and stronger and I needed to act, to do something to memorialize the trees before they pulled out the stumps and the roots and paved it all over as if the trees never existed.

For some reason, I went online and very easily found the city’s arbor database which lists all the trees in the city by street name, which had been started and kept up for a very long time.

In the database, looking at the location and dates, I could see which trees had been taken down. It was evident the data had not been updated for long time, but I had an ID number, and a relative age of the trees (plus the years since the data was entered, which is unknown), based on the circumference of the tree when the data was recorded.

I made some notes, and also realized the city had left two of the older Red Maple trees across the street — one older one to the west of the cross street, and another older one east of the cross street, and also a younger one down the block from the 7 which were taken down. This gave me a clue that perhaps the trees that were cut down had some sort of disease, perhaps. But still, I really didn’t care enough to want to seek out the reasons, because the trees were cut. It was too late to do anything, and I didn’t want to get caught up in laying blame and sorting out what had happened in the past to get to where we were at this moment.

It was enough to just be here with this grief, and holding it, mourning these trees, and feeling all the feelings of loss was what I was interested in doing.

Looking up into the canopy of the great Red Maple tree on 12th Avenue quite some time before it was cut down November 2019

It occurred to me that I would like to make a ritual memorial for each of the stumps, lay some flowers and light some incense and play some music because the incense might appeal to the trees and shrubs in the area, and the music as well, if I take along my little portable speaker and play a mournful song with the bass set prominently.

How to set the incense out safely was a question, I really didn’t want to start a fire. So I decided to donate 7 little glass votive candle holders to my endeavour, and set into them small wax votive candles. I put the speaker and candles in my bag, along with a small box of thin Japanese incense sticks, and a lighter.

I headed out, without paying much attention to what I was wearing and later realized I had on my long apron (floor length) over my yoga pants, with boots, and my great coat, my handmade book bag with candles and things, and my pocketbook with a long strap across body over my coat.

Once on the street, I remember feeling slightly self-conscious as I must have been a bit of a sight, a sort of frantic bag-lady, on this side of town and on this conservative and fairly affluent busy street as I made my way to the posh market on the corner which sold flowers. Part of my plan was to get a bundle of flowers with greens to make into 7 bundles and tie with the banana fibre I’d popped in my bag at the last minute before leaving my place.

The market closed at 8pm, so I hurried there with 10 minutes to spare, chose the flowers and greens and asked if I could use the empty table in the front to make some flower bundles as memorial offerings to the Red Maple trees which had been cut down on 12th. There was resounding agreement and I went to work, laying out bundles and tying them up. Staff at the store were immensely kind and understanding as they began shutting down the store and letting me out after they’d locked up.

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Leaving the market, I scooted off the main street and over to the alley, then walked down a few blocks and over one to the site of carnage — where the sidewalk was closed and traffic was diverted over one lane because of the work still ongoing on that side of the street where they’d left the tree stumps.

As I approached the first stump, that’s when it hit me.

Tears began streaming down my face, as I approached and put my hands on it, reaching across the gap in the sidewalk where the concrete had been smashed and the roots were cut, pulled up and sticking out.

Kneeling down with tears flowing, I pulled out my phone and began to play the song I’d chosen for the occasion, The Beloved by Beverly Rieger.

I’d set my portable Bose speaker mode to play the bass as strong as possible, and I turned it up so the vibrations of my speaker would resonate with the tree as I set my bag on the ground near the roots of the stump of this tree.

Then I took out the first candle and votive holder, and lit the candle and the incense, and placed the incense in the glass candle votive for safety. Then placed the votive with a bundle of flowers and a little hand-written card I had prepared, one unique card for each of the trees by arbour database code name.

I sat there for some time, weeping before moving off to the next tree stump. Before I did, I took large handfuls of leaves and debris from this tree and shoved them in my bag.

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After I’d visited all 7 trees, my bag filled with leaves and debris from them all, I instinctively went over to the largest tree in the area — a very tall Fir tree — and laid all the leaves and debris around the base of this tree.

Then, I put my hands on the Grand Old Fir and told it about the Red Maples and how they’d been cut down, and it must have been for a good reason because the arborists at the city are very wise. And I told the grand Fir tree that everything would be okay.

When I left the area to go back to my street, I passed one of the stumps on the corner, and I recognized it as the senior tree, not that it was the oldest, I don’t know if it was, but it sort of “spoke” to me, and I went over to the tree and put my hand on the hacked off stump, and that stump with its roots all hacked and and akimbo, showing through the hole in the concrete, it thanked me for this ritual.. and I believed this to be true, and that it really spoke to me.

And through my tears, which were basically streaming throughout the entire time but more so after this acknowledgement from the senior tree, I walked home.

Love. ❤️

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Note: this event happened in November 2019, and since then I’ve tried several times to write about it and have failed due to feeling a great deal of grief, and also some ego conflict around my reaction to the loss of the trees in my neighbourhood, the mourning ritual that I offered, and the gift of acknowledgment bestowed on me in return. I’ve settled and integrated these feelings and attitudes now, and feel quite a bit lighter and able to write it out plainly with some clarity. I hope. ~Trish