The Wolf Tree and a Lament for Creation
By John Creasy
A giant White Oak and one of it’s little babies. One of my “babies” too.
As a child, the woods behind my house was a magical place, where mysterious animals roamed and trails extended to the northern boreal forests of Canada. Little did I know the twenty or so acres of woods actually ended at the cul-de-sac at the other end of the neighborhood. My imagination and my woods shaped me in significant ways in those early years. Hours spent in the little patch of wilderness helped me connect with God, with my family and with all the nature around me.
As a little kid we hiked around the woods as a family, our German Shepherd running laps around us as we splashed through the mud. Later I bought a mountain bike and would ride the trails, the woods seemed a lot smaller then, but they were still significant for the suburbs of Pittsburgh. I learned that the woods, the old barn in the middle and the big old house were all part of Bush Nurseries, a local nursery business that had closed down in the early 1980’s. Now, the land was being sold to a developer.
Early in life I connected in some meaningful but unexplainable way with oak trees. I just liked them, I like the way their sprawling lower branches could reach far away from the trunk, twisting and turning toward the light. I liked their huge trunks and appearance of great age. There was one oak in on the edge of the main tree nursery that had grown for decades into what is known as a “wolf tree,” a tree that grows horizontally large to wolf up all the sunlight. I would sit under those sprawling branches, against the rough bark of that big tree. It felt like home. In reflection back, it was a first sit spot for me, a spot to just be and relate to the birds, deer, plants and other animals of that spot. That big old wolf tree was special to me… and I knew it was going to be cut down.
The largest Elm tree in Texas and a great example of a “Wolf Tree” at the edge of a farm’s forested edge.
I’ve told this story before, because I think it’s funny, because the events could have gotten me into a lot of trouble, because people listen and laugh when I tell it. But this story sticks in my mind because it was the first time I felt significant lament and grief for creation.
As the developers began staking out the the roadways and properties throughout the woods I became adamant that I would climb the old wolf tree so they couldn’t cut it down. This was before Luna climbed her giant Redwood tree in California. I’d never heard of an eco-activist. But I felt a need to save my big tree. As the months went on more and more wooden stakes with pink flags on top were popping up all over the woods demarcating the spots where boundaries would be. My woods were no longer mine, it felt like a violation. My woods were going to all be cut down, not just the big old wolf tree.
One day, I grabbed hold of one of those wooden stakes. I pulled hard on it and it came up out of the ground. I stood there holding that flimsy wooden stake. I wondered where the tree came from that made that stake now marking where more trees would be cut down. Another stake was just a few feet away. I pulled that one up too. Then another and another. There were so many and they were so easy to pull up! I started moving them, putting them in different locations. Some of them I took home and hid in my family’s garage. Some of the bigger stakes were made of 2x4’s, I figured they marked property corners. I moved those ones too.
Fast-forward a few years and I had a good friend living in a brand new big house in the middle of what was once my woods. Two things surprised me when I talked to Pete about the loss of that landscape. He too felt grief and lamented the continued removal of the forest. Pete saw the remaining woods and saw the trucks hauling out logs. He connected with the land and trees very quickly and even shed tears when his big tree was cut down, a huge Eastern White Pine. I was also surprised when he told me that his neighbors were in a dispute about their property lines. The maps didn’t match up. One day I showed Pete the old stakes in my garage. He quickly realized what I’d done. We both felt kinda good about it.
I recently learned a new word: Kithship. “Where kin are relations of kind, kith is relationship based on knowledge of place—the close landscape, “one’s square mile,” as Griffiths writes, where each tree and neighbor and robin and fox and stone is known, not by map or guide but by heart. Kith is intimacy with a place, its landmarks, its fragrance, the habits of its wildlings.” so says Lyanda Lynn Haupt, in Rooted: Life at the Crossroads of Science, Nature, and Spirit.
My response to grief probably wasn’t the right response. But, as a child with deep connections to a piece of land, a true kithship to the plants, trees and animals of a landscape, what else should we expect. My land was threatened and I felt a need to do something about it, I had very little I could do.
Today, any child with any care or connection to nature is continually in a state of lament. How can we, as adult, turn away from the losses we are collectively experiencing? How can we not do all that we can do to love the earth, care for creation, reject destructive cultural norms, etc? Loss, lament and grief can lead to sustained commitments when experienced in a supportive community. Today, through Wild Indigo Guilds, we’re working to create those kinds of communities. Communities that lament together and develop meaningful action for the earth, for God’s people and for our children and their children.
For info on joining a Wild Indigo Guild visit https://www.wild-indigo-guild.com/wild-indigo-guilds
