Talking to Trees

On the grounds of the public school in our rural community, there grows a young white pine tree. But this tree is not rooted in the ground; rather it springs from the fork in a venerable old sugar maple, about five feet up. It appears healthy, and gains a few inches in height every year.

How did this white pine come to live in a sugar maple, to share habitat so intimately with an entirely different species? Did the wind blow a cone seed there a few years ago, dropping it precisely so that it became viable, landing as it must have in a patch of damp soil and duff previously lodged in a crack in the sugar maple’s bark? Did a bird or animal, a blue jay or squirrel, do the same? What are the odds? Did they do it on purpose? What are the odds of that?

Or perhaps a curious child or adult placed the seed there just to see what would happen, to see if it would survive and thrive. . . . No one is saying. That seems to be the more likely scenario though. The same thing transpired in a neighboring sugar maple, but whatever the guest was, it didn’t take hold. Plus, the sugar maple I write of, in the same fertile spot, also hosts a small eastern hemlock. Keeping those two close company are four additional species of vegetation: a sinuous vine with ferocious thorns; a deciduous sprout whose leaves are too adolescent on this early spring day to reveal their identity; a cool, spongy drape of moss; and a single dandelion.

Some scientists argue that trees communicate with each other—not the way we humans do, of course, but via electrical impulses. They are said, for example, to be able to warn their neighbors of impending danger, whether it be a storm, predatory insects, or even an axe.

Never underestimate the power, the astonishing abilities, of nature. Once upon a time we didn’t know canaries could alert us to toxic gas leaks in mines, or house pets to imminent earthquakes.

I reason that if trees can trade messages with each other, perhaps a particularly smart one, like this sugar maple—smart enough to welcome and host so many other species—might be able to communicate with people. So I asked that sugar maple, “How do you feel about two foreign trees, a shrub, a bryophyte, a weed, and a thorn, all unlike you, taking root in you?” I leaned my ear close to its aged bark.

After a few moments, the sugar maple replied, “It’s not a problem. I have plenty of nutrients to share, and plenty of room. We may look different on the outside—some of us have thorns, some don’t, some are rough, some smooth, and our leaves, blossoms, bark are different shapes, textures, and hues—but inside, we’re really all the same, all born from the same source. So it’s easy to get along and live in harmony.”

Then this sugar maple paused and said, “You humans think you’re so smart—why can’t you do that?”

Taken aback by this question, I had to wonder the same thing. Instead of welcoming other species to share space and resources with us, we humans often reject them, banish them, or kill them. We sometimes do this even to members of our own species, if we perceive them to be unlike us—if they have thorns, or are rough, or have different shapes, textures, and colors.

As autumn approaches, early at this northern latitude, I visit that host tree again. I see the dandelion has departed, sensing the colder temperatures soon to come, but the remaining tenants still thrive. Even as they have changed for this new season, all continue to live cooperatively and well: a United Nations of flora, quietly accepting each other and paying no mind to the differences they bear.

Yes, in our own lives, in our circles, in our meetings, how can we do that?