On Grief and Trees: A Saturday Afternoon Freewrite

I’ve been trying to write this post for a while, excited for the ideas that I had for things to share and some fun ways to give a little extra something to the people who are paid subscribers as a thank you for people willing to commit their hard-earned dollars towards my writing efforts. But the past two weeks have taken so many emotional twists and turns, and I’ve been doing my best to process through them while carrying on with the regular obligations of the day.

Last week we finally got some work done on our property, specifically focused on taking down some of our oak trees which have been slowly succumbing to insect damage thanks to warmer winters. We knew it was necessary, but had been putting off the work partially because we knew it’d be expensive and partially because I don’t think we wanted to hear how bad the insect damage really was.

After reviewing the trees and the property, it was ultimately decided that 3 needed to come down now, with more necessary in the coming years. Included in the ones tagged for this year was a huge oak at the front of the house that was easily visible from the window of our porch, the room where we spend the majority of our time.

I had hoped that we could at least keep part of the tree to carve it (I found someone local who does some pretty incredible work), but the arborist we were working with said the damage to it was too significant for a project like that. And so, for 3 days, an orange band was wrapped around its mighty trunk, signifying to us and the rest of the world that it was not long for this world.

Even though this is work I knew we needed to do—that I wanted to get done—I was not expecting how incredibly emotional it would be. The crew came last Thursday, and a handful of workers descended onto our property with loud equipment and machines, ready to change our landscape forever. No matter where you looked, someone was inspecting and cutting, the sounds of blades penetrating wood and loud cautionary beeps permeating the space for hours. The cats and I roamed the house, peeking out of windows to watch the “progress", and I did my best to keep the lump in my throat from turning into full-blown sobs.