§ I found myself ridiculously anxious to see my little trees and discover if they had survived. §
A few years ago my Dad called me at the beginning of summer, asking if I would like to transplant a tiny volunteer evergreen tree that had sprouted in his garden. Although I didn’t really have a place to plant a tree in the tiny yard of my condo, I agreed to dig up the little specimen, planning to see if I could nurture it in a pot on my patio. The seedling was not even four inches high when I spaded it up.
A few weeks later, while weeding my daughter’s garden, I found another tree seedling, this one a black walnut. I transplanted it also, again to a pot on my back patio.
In the years that followed, these two saplings thrived. During the bleak winter months, I carefully moved their pots from the patio to a more sheltered area of my yard, swathing the ceramic in bubble wrap and piling straw on top to warm their roots. Each spring I waited anxiously to see if the thin stick that was the trunk of the black walnut would sprout new leaves; each summer I watered the evergreen tree just as anxiously, telling it to hang on through the hot and humid months. I regularly provided Dad with progress reports on the condition of the small evergreen, measuring it like a little child standing against the doorway to see how much it had grown. Both trees were re-potted into successively larger containers, while I worried each time that transplant shock might harm or kill them.
But the little trees continue to thrive. Carefully sheltered, bitter January winds and ice storms did not bow them over; scorching summer heat failed to dry them out and bake their roots.
Finally, though, it became clear that these now not-so-little saplings could not survive much longer in their current environment. They were outgrowing their pots at a faster and faster rate. They needed to be put permanently into the earth if they were to survive. I spoke with a relative and we agreed to haul them out to her acreage in the country.
We carefully chose a spot where the black walnut would not affect any garden plants and I dug a wide hole for the roots and set it into the earth. Then we selected a space nearer her cabin, although not sheltered by it, to plant the small cedar pine. I wished my carefully-nurtured little saplings the best and told them to continue to grow strong and healthy.
It was over a year before we returned to her cabin to tromp through the woods and picnic and enjoy the outdoors. I found myself ridiculously anxious to see my little trees and discover if they had survived.
As we pulled into the parking area in front of the cabin, I smiled: there stood the sturdy little evergreen, now thigh-high and bushy, still thriving. But a quick review of the area failed to reveal the black walnut. At last I found it, upright only because of the bittersweet vine that had wrapped around the little stick of a dead trunk. Looking at it, I felt infinitesimally sad. I realized that I had invested a great deal of myself in nurturing both these little trees.
There’s a metaphor somewhere in this story, I think. Much like any two very different siblings anywhere in the world, both little saplings were given the same care, attention, and nurturing. Both were appreciated, despite their differences; both were beautiful, each in a different way. Both were released to be on their own in the world. But only one survived that transition.
So it is with one’s children. Parents raise them with the same care, attention, and love; appreciate both their beauty and their differences, and finally send them out to succeed or fail on their own in the wide world. Some of those children survive, or even thrive, while others crash and burn, destroying their own lives and, sadly, sometimes the lives of others in the process. Parents, being parents, often blame themselves for their failures of their offspring, despite all they did to nurture them. Parents invest a great deal of their spirit in their children, and it’s painful to watch when that investment fails.
Now it is with a touch of trepidation that I look forward to returning to that cabin in the woods each year, to discover if the sturdy little pine continues to grow. I hope it will do so; I hope I have added one long-term green and growing thing to our struggling planet. But, live or die, I’ll always appreciate the lessons taught me by the little black walnut and the sturdy cedar pine.
Update: The Sturdy Pine, now as tall as my 9-year-old great nephew, in a new photo taken June, 2021, and even taller than my 9-year old great niece just a few months later, in November, 2021.