I used a butterknife to peel away the ponderosa pine’s bark plates, revealing bright cambium. I did a soap-bubble test for gurgling at possible boreholes and checked for frass at the base. Was it root rot, bark beetle, sunscald?
A tree contains a biography. The outside tells only part of a story, with its branches, needles, and trunk. Last summer, I noticed my meditation tree—the one I had been looking after for more than a decade—had resin pouring from it, and its needles were browning.
She survived winter but didn't return in spring. Instead, she browned to the crown and down all sides except one small part. An arborist, with a beard to his mid-chest and jolly smile, came and said it was alive but actively dying—"alive-dead," he said. "It’s gotta come down. The longer you wait, the more expensive it gets."
He apologized and said that he hated to cut down trees; he fancied himself more of a limber. “In my prime, I loved nothing more than limbing a tree to its full beauty.” But this one was a fire hazard, and we were in fire season. He said he'd put this 85-foot-tall one on the high-priority list if we agreed.
I woke, pulled back the curtains, and took her photo—her last sunrise. A mixture of gratitude and nostalgia entered the haze of remembering the kids and dogs running around her. Three of the dogs were dead now, too.
I know most people don't see nature as co-existing beings, placing me in a hypothetical minority. Her roots still give all they can to the world below. Each tree’s roots stretch as far as its height. Beneath me is a web of symbiosis woven from wood.
My meditation’s tree last sunrise. The small, scattered clouds are a rarity. My evidence? Looking at the sky each morning. June 2026
Three fellers arrived and took her down limb by limb, trunk slice by trunk slice. She’d been a massive shade tree. Her canopy caught rain and snow, keeping the ground below almost untouched.
After they left, I hosed off the sawdust to see her story. Each ring showed she was over a century old: probably germinated around the World Wars, endured the Dust Bowl, slowed growth as she fought for light and water, then grew faster as the canopy opened.
I was born in her rings. You were born in her rings. Her story has stopped, but I leave her stump in the ground and will varnish the top with pine tar and oil, keeping her cross-section alive with history beside mine. Next, I’m trying to decide what to plant nearby her to watch life unfold, again.
Self-portrait in front of my meditation tree. The remaining canopy keeps her in shade. June 2026.