Trees remember all

The trees from your childhood still remember you.

I wrote this down in my notes app whilst listening to a podcast. It’s one of those sentences that caught my imagination at the right time.

Trees are makers for time and place, their stillness can reassure us of our place in the world and offer a way-marker for our own memories. They ring in the change of seasons and grow steadily that unobserved might not seem to change at all, so as not to overwhelm us with the short lived fast pace nature of our own existence. I have a small apple tree in our front garden, it has become tradition to take a picture of my children next to the tree at the start of the school year. We pass the apple tree everyday not noticing the growth and changes one day to the next and yet there has been, alongside my children, steady growth recorded in the yearly photograph. When they return as adults I hope the familiarity of the apple tree, whatever it’s size, will welcome them home as keeper of the memories for us as a family.

When I find a lime tree leaf I am transported back to my own childhood walks to school, along a road lined with lime trees, the familiar shape of the leaves in my hand. My hand much bigger and aged would still delight in holding such a special leaf. I wonder if I walked that route again the trees would acknowledge my return as I would their steadfast presence.

Ancient trees hold longevity and memory, stretching out their branches wide to etch time across the ground in shadow form. Some trees stand the test of time, cities built around them as they witness the coming and going of buildings, streets and people. Now of course many of these trees have preservation orders in a bid to protect them from greed and change. The fact that they are growing and alive makes me wonder about my passage of time and how relatively short it is But I am comforted by the idea that the trees of my life will remember me after the spoken word of my time is lost.

And what of the other ancient memories that whisper on the breeze that rustles the leaves? Old oak and hawthorns stand alone in a field taking up space for fairy folk that dwell amongst the craggy roots and hollow trunks. Revered by the farmer who takes on the old ways given to him by the generations before. Maybe the tree marks difficult land be it boggy or stoney rather than enchanted by magic. But either way, erring on the side of caution, it’s best to leave the tree and any potential spirits alone. The trees outlive our own memory so become keepers of the stories and folklore they embody, holding steady as the landscape changes beyond recognition.

The old tree stays.