While in the park this morning, I saw a massive slew of fallen trees the length of a city block somberly burning. I approached the man in charge and said, “How sad is this?”
“Not so much ma’am,” he answered, hiking up his jeans. “At least trees can be recycled into something else useful. Spoken like a true undertaker.
Why does the idea of mulch just not do it for me? This group didn’t even make the cut. He did say only half of them will be incinerated, a cheery word, and the rest will go into the grinder. That certainly picked me right up.
The smell was amazing – clean and crisp which also reminded me of how I wish those trees were all still standing. I make myself hug at least one before I leave the park, for morale’s sake, mine more than theirs. The landscape has too many bald spots that I know in time will be filled by bushes and plants, same as last year after Hurricane Irene. It’s a valiant effort by the Central Park Conservancy to try to make it seem as though nothing terrible ever happened.
But alas, I still miss my majestic sycamores that are being cremated as I write.
I hate feeling powerless, something I’ve been dealing with a lot lately. When I think how these strong, sturdy giants were just ripped from their roots right from the ground, it scares me to no end. I’ve taken their sudden demise quite personally as you can see.
One good thing is that my appreciation for them has risen considerably. Those trees that made it through are more beautiful to me than ever and my respect for nature has tripled 10 fold.
This morning when I was hugging Teddy, a huge oak I named long ago, I saw a new nest or maybe an old one I just never noticed before, built halfway up Teddy’s ample trunk. There were also two squirrels playing nearby while a third sat on a branch eating breakfast.
I found great comfort in all of this.
It made me realize…