In the park behind my parents’ house, there is a beech tree with a burnt out heart.
This park is really two suburban parks established in the 19th century by munificent local mill owners as a place for their workers to go other than the pub on weekend afternoons. Over the years the parks have fused. Together they grade into the surrounding woodland, these remnants of an older place from which the parks were carved and held in a suspended state, all else shorn and shrouded under houses.
Paths are threaded through the wood; heavy rain causes the clay to shift under the soil and the path occasionally slumps into the river. Trees are pulled in as well, swept away or up turned with their great roots to the sky. An Anthropocene Scene; the trees have plastic bags tangled into them like trapped ghosts. And little bags of dog poo decorate the trees like Christmas decorations, left by those without the patience to find a bin. But the growth-stretched skulls carved 15ft up a tree trunk hint at a deeper history.
This beech tree is situated behind a running track. It is a subliminal space; amateur athletics to the back, to the front the uncanny knocks of woodpeckers. Wild and illicit, but mundane and suburban as well. Beside the beech is a fallen brethren. Someone decided this trunk should have been planed into a seat, to this the woods have sent hyphae and added shelves of bracket fungi. There is a little clearing in front of my tree, a perfect setting for a ritual.
I walk these woods alone at strange and secret times, tapping out the same route year after year so that I do not really travel through space but instead through time, seeing each tree change its face for a new season. My ritual is ecological and personal, I move through time as it changes nature and changes myself.
Others have other rituals in this place, events I do not see but find evidence of. In cucumber-cool summer mornings I find crushed cans, little plastic baggies and the charred remains of a fire in the clearing. It is a natural place to congregate. A wild tamed no place to loosen your mind with drink and drugs.
I’ve always known the tree as having a gaping black wound from its roots stretching two metres up the tree and through the bark, pith and heartwood. All that the fire has left is a centimetres thick crescent at its back. I do not know when it happened, when the heartwood burned. It must have been quite a scene, flames licking up the trunk; fire ascending. I don’t blame who did it, I know the tempting itch of fire on wood is one sometimes not easily overcome. When the ash settled, what remained was a top heavy tree. Above a mostly intact stumpy trunk and branches, but below supported by the fragile inches of tissue that link the rest to the roots.
But this does not mean the tree is dead.
Trees are resilient in a very different way to animals. Lacking the choice of a quick escape all plants are hardy, but trees’ bulk prevents them from taking the cowardly annual option. They must retain their trunks all year, feeding the living tissue stored sugars and minerals. Whilst leafless, the tree starves until spring budding. Unlike vertebrates who tuck stem cell deep into the bone marrow, plants keep their stem cells under the bark throughout the tree. This means the idea of the individual blurs when we considered plants. For many plants, a part can break off and use its stem cells to form a new, cloned whole. These stem cells allowed my beech, horrifically mauled, to still put out leaves for another spring and nuts for another autumn. Though the heartwood is burnt, the name is deceptive. For a tree is not run by the heart, or anyone part. If the xylem and phloem course through the remaining tissue, the plant can endure, adapt and bloom once more.
The beech’s cavity is large enough for me to stand inside. The air changes, gone is the fury and wet-cold of the winter wind. Where the heartwood once is still and warm. The sounds of the woods are muffled.
I think of Ariel imprisoned and tormented in the pine and how different this is. I would have the tissues knit over me and take me in and we will grow together, a full canopy.
But chimerism is no solution. I meet this tree so often as it is a thing living despite unspeakable damage done to it and I want to learn from it, not join it. I want to know endurance in a harsh world where harsh things are done; I want to know how to have been burned and keep living.