The Mother Tree

In this season, I keep returning to this vision of the mother tree. 

She is a strong and mighty oak now, planted decades ago in the shade of some other mother. Under the protection of her dense canopy, she has dropped her seeds, and they have taken root.

In our human impulse for independence, we have thought that trees do best with lots of room to grow. We want the perfect tree, a symmetrical tree, a tree with aesthetic appeal. But scientists who study forests have found that trees need community. A tree in isolation might look beautiful for a while, but without its underground network of roots and mycelium, it grows in isolation. Its grip on the earth is not as strong. It has no companions to hold onto when the gusts come.

So there is the mother tree in her gnarled and crooked and leaning beauty among her peers, dropping acorns that seem to be stunted in their growth. They are so small and vulnerable there in the woods, hiding in the shade of their mothers. We want them to have light so they can spring up and grow strong, like their mothers, but the mother tree seems to rob the saplings of sunlight.

Instead, like the birds that nest in their branches and regurgitate to feed their young, the mother tree passes nutrients through the root system and mycelial network to their seedlings, building the foundation and binding saplings together in the unseen underground. She takes sunlight through photosynthesis and shares it with her young, like breast milk.

This can go on for years. The mother tree’s broad canopy of leaves digests the sun and passes its resources to her seedlings, who bide their time in the shade above ground, all the while building strength and resilience in the mysterious root system that stretches throughout the forest floor.

There comes a point when the shelter of the mother tree becomes oppressive. If she keeps on shading her saplings, they will never become mature trees. But if light opens onto the forest floor too soon, a sapling may spring up in a hurry but lack the root system to survive the storms.

One day, in its particular season, a limb in the mother tree snaps. For the first time in decades, light streams down to the forest floor, and there in the sun, the saplings start to rise. It’s their time, their moment, their opportunity to grow.

But it came at great expense to the mother tree. As her seedlings rise, more branches in her will break and fall and decompose. She will become a habitat to new creatures. Her moniker of mother tree remains only in title as her seedlings become stronger and take over the role of underground nurturers. There will be a day when even her heartwood hollows out. Her strength will fade. The fibers that bound her together will become dust and compost for her children’s children.

In order for new things to grow, old things must pass away.

I keep returning to this vision of the mother tree because it seems to be the season of falling limbs. 

In my own household, we have three seedlings that are eager for their chance to stand and stretch toward the sun. One is on her way out the door to college next Friday. I want to say to the younger ones, be patient. Your time in the sun will come. And to the eldest, I see you. Give me just one more second because opening this door is like amputating my arm, and yet I know it is so good. I know it is so true. I know the way you will grow is going to be so beautiful, and I can’t wait to see how you unfurl.

In our world, there are aging institutions and elder leaders who have given so much to create a future they now risk stifling if they don’t just drop their limbs and let some young ones stretch into the gaps. Aren’t you tired? Aren’t you weary? You have done well. Now rest. There is more for you to give and to be given in this next season.

We have so much wisdom to glean from the mother tree. There, in her boughs and bark, she holds the secret, the universal reality, that to everything there is a season. All things grow. All things will pass away.

Monday Meditation:

Stand here a moment, rooted in your community of fellow trees. In this season of transition, when your branches necessarily break and your limbs fall, which they will, your fellow trees will hold you. Who undergirds you when the wind comes? Who holds you firm even as your leaves are stripped and limbs sway? Name them. 

Now look at the way this younger generation is longing to stretch to the sky. They look so ambitious and earnest from up here. You have fed their dreams of cerulean ceilings and bright rays of future light. Keep doing that. They need big dreams to grow into. Take the knowledge and wisdom you’ve garnered and let it grace their foundation with strength. You know better than they do that the storms will come. You know better than they do that they are going to make their big mistakes. And when they sustain their first real grief, pass mercy through your veins. Pour compassion into their soil. Shed tears of sorrow with them, and they will be fortified. They will stand.

Consider what strength it takes to let go. Consider what strength it takes to make room. Your gift will come back to you in abundance. Look to the mother tree. She has much to give to you.