I Name My Trees. So What?

I have had numerous post-Storm Alfred reflections, but this is the one I choose to share. While numerous people, including friends and family, have suffered in myriad ways from lack of access to heat, hot water and electricity, my focus is on the loss of life in my yard.

When I woke up the morning after Alfred raged through Connecticut, I was speechless at the devastation in my yard. Lilacs that I have lovingly pruned and transplanted for the last 17 years that are now 20 feet tall were lying on the ground. My dogwood, that was planted when Turner was born and is now as tall as my house, was snapped in half like a toothpick. Two of my maple trees took heavy damage with major limbs falling within inches of our house. But what broke my heart was my Mama Willow…she had lost fifty percent of her branches.

Mama Willow is a commanding presence in my yard. She is our home base in the event of a fire. She is our shade—on the hottest summer days, we are comfortable under her arches. She is the best climbing tree…my boys and my neighbor’s boys have done countless flips from that perfect, low branch on the right side. She is the largest presence at 145 Parker Farms Road; and prior to 10.29.11, she was beautiful. I was so sad.

In the midst of my sadness, I made calls to borrow chain saws and enlist some muscle to help with hauling. Some advised waiting for the town clean up day and some had already gotten quotes from arborists and tree pruning services (to the tune of thousands of dollars).

That is when it struck me.

Why aren’t I as heartbroken about the brokenness of people? Why aren’t I coordinating resources to help the sick, addicted, lonely, downtrodden, and desperately poor of the world? I give one week of the year to help the poor in La Romana, Dominican Republic and it doesn’t feel like enough. I want to get to the point where helping the disadvantaged feels as personal as helping save my Mama Willow.