I want to return to Muir Woods and the fallen trees for a moment. Actually, I want to return to one tree in particular.
Most of the fallen trees we saw were smooth, worn away by the years. But as we rounded the corner towards the silent Cathedral Grove, there was a giant tree, completely uprooted. Around it and on it and over it, it was easy to see those cycles of nature about which Laura Gilpin wrote; there was moss and bark disintegration and new growth, all the greens and browns sharing space, interacting with each other and the sun and the shade and the air.
But, based on the reading I did in preparation for speaking about the banyan tree last year, I found myself focused on the roots. Because here is the thing about redwood trees and their roots: Unlike the banyan tree, whose roots may dig deeper and deeper, the redwood tree has a shallow root system. Rather than growing deep, rather than creating a self-sufficiency or growing alone, the roots of a redwood can extend over one hundred feet from the base, intertwining with the roots of other redwoods. This increases their stability during strong winds and floods; they “talk” to one another, share nutrients, and physically hold each other up. Redwoods cannot survive alone.
And, of course, neither can we.
Marge Piercy, one of my favorite poets, wrote about trees and roots and planting and growth. She writes:
Weave real connections, create real nodes, build real houses.
Live a life you can endure: make life that is loving.
Keep tangling and interweaving and taking more in…
This is how we are going to live for a long time:
— Rabbi Sari Laufer