I had to call in to work with a stomach ache this morning, so have been diligent with my get-better-quick scheme of plentiful sleep, copious hydration, and gulps of fresh air. On my afternoon walking dose of outdoors, I noted plentiful signs that the autumnal scale is waxing ever nearer to winter (here in Polar, we’ve already had 2 occasions of accumulated snowfall). Only the conifers remain green, the tamaracks golden wisps painting the lowlands, the ruddy oaks tenaciously gripping their rustly cloaks against the dipping temps. A few small basswoods rebel with a handful of yellowing green leaves clutched on young sapling arms – the rest of the forest lies bare, a translucent shadow of the thick foliage that summer’s boon boasted.

I hear the high-pitched moan of a chainsaw echo in the still woods, a very familiar sound from most autumnal weekend afternoons of my childhood as I trekked along dutifully in Dad’s Red Wing boot tracks. We spoke little beyond what was needed to get the task done, but he often gave mini quizzes on what types of trees surrounded us (I still send him pics of trees to help identify them). I keenly recall the frustration I had at my inability to recognize a still-standing dead tree; if you’ve ever had the opportunity to fell a rotting tree with just a shove from your bare hands, you recognize my irk. Dad’s skillful eyes knew to look beyond the barren limbs, where life showed green in summer; he knew there were other signs of life, hidden deeper within the craggy bark.

I no longer stroll through a wintry forest and believe that I am surrounded by dead trees. I know that this is but a season in the tree’s existence – a season of slow, minimal growth; a season of dry, barren limbs without fruit; a season of bitter cold and great spans of darkness. I know there is still life in these proud sentinels of the forest, both large and small.

Perhaps you know someone who is in their winter season. There doesn’t appear to be much life at the surface. Maybe they’re experiencing those long, dark nights that grow as summer wanes. They feel stuck, ungrowing, unmoving.

I’d venture to say that the worst thing we could do for that person is to suggest they move to a “better” growing spot; I’m no gardener, but I’m guessing that uprooting a plant in winter is a surefire way to kill whatever life remains. Instead, we can trust and reassure that spring comes again, that nights get shorter and days warmer, and growth begins again. Perhaps we can even offer some insulation and protection from the harshness of the season. At the very least, we could all be Tree-huggers. ❤️🌲