Letter to my children: Tree cutting

Dearest Beloveds,

If you choose to read any of my writing beyond these letters, you will quickly learn that your momma is not a fan of comparing. As we were discussing yesterday at lunch, comparisons come from judgements and lead to unhappiness. There will always be people who are more accomplished and less accomplished than you in any field that you can imagine - and as such, comparing yourself to others will always lead to making yourself feel temporarily better than someone else or temporarily worse about yourself. It is not a fruitful avenue to explore in life and better to avoid entirely. If you can - avoid judgements altogether - and if that is not possible, than please be conscious of what you are doing and whether you feel it is hurtful or helpful in your belly.

Your mother is now faced with the slight dilemma of writing about your reactions to our recent land clearing adventure. Each of you responded completely differently and each reaction is equally valid and appropriate. I don’t want these letters to serve as ways for the two of you to put judgement calls on your behavior as smalls when you are older - so with that desire stated, I will share the story. Ahem.

We are clearing a strip of land on the hill above us to have a view of the Catskills for our upcoming Tentrr site. Your father and I last weekend went up the hill with you both to choose the trees we would need to take down in order to achieve the view. Both of you played together happily, finding bark and leaves to make a fairy house while we discussed sight lines and whatnot.

About a week after your father cut the 12 trees that we had marked, he and I went up there to clear them away. I looked around and my heart sank. It looked as though a hurricane had come through - brown leaves and trunks akimbo. There have several instances since moving to the country where I have felt like an idiot and grokking the felled trees was one of them. As a friend of mine said recently, “cutting them down is the easy part.” Downed trees need to be de-limbed and chunked (a term I learned a few years ago to make usable logs out of a tree trunk). The brush has to be dragged down the hill to be out of sight. The three hours it took your father to cut down the trees created over 20 hours of labor.

Dragon, you immediately grabbed your axe (thank you Baba for your “official scouting axe” in your box of tools) and started hacking at the stumps.

When you first pulled out the axe from the tool box a few weeks ago, my heart faltered - but I figured we could teach you like I have taught you how to walk with sharp objects (pointing down, right next to your leg, thank you Knife Safety class at Zingermans!) The rule we’ve landed is that you need to wear boots and long pants with an adult watching you. You prefer to wear your father’s full helmet to protect your face and ears. The first time you started using the axe, you started hacking away, knees bending in time with the arm strokes. After about 7 swings, you pause.

“I need to take a little rest.”

“Resting is good.”

“This is hard work Momma.”

“I know it is.”

“I am strong - I can keep working.”

“That sounds great,” and the axe moves again. Every day this week you have asked me if we could go up the hill to cut down more trees.

Bean, you took one look at the hurricane-esque landscape and immediately asked to leave. Your whole body went into lockdown and you refused to engage in any of the distractions your Momma tossed to you, “Fairy houses? Look for frogs? Chase butterflies?” You were having none of it.

Thank goodness that night it was my turn to put you to bed. “My beloved Bean, what happened today when we were all together on the hill? Why were you so upset about being there with us?”

You look at me, your big blue eyes wide and soft. “Well, Momma. I will tell you. Momma, trees give us air to breath and we cut down so many of them. It was so sad. It made me really unhappy.” And then you tear up.

“Oh Bean.” This shrewd perception pierces me. I pull you in close for a big hug.

You continue to talk to my chest. “Momma, those trees help us live and we killed them.”

“Oh my dear one. You are totally right. Trees do help us live and we did kill them and it is very sad.”

“Why did we do that?”

“Well, we want the people who come and stay to have a beautiful view and we can use the wood for firewood in the winter to keep our house warm.”

“Oh.”

I must admit, writing this now, that seems like a paltry excuse to justify the murder of an oak or a hickory dryad. Could we have the campsite without the view? Of course. Is the pleasure of the view worth the life of those trees? That is a good question - one that is academic at this point, but will certainly inform my thinking in the future.

This is a discussion and a debate you will probably have your whole life. In order to live on this earth we take from her. Yet our current economic reality has made really easy to take too much from her and she, our Gaia, is suffering. The entry point for this discussion can be driving a car, choosing to certain foods (or not), getting on an airplane, buying new clothing, choosing plastic soap containers, or cutting down trees. Regardless, it is an important and worthy conversation, especially if you can keep judgements and comparisons out of it.

Thank you both for being my teachers. I love you so so much.