Death of a Tree

Work in Progress from the Tree Sentinels series

Today a tree died. It was a long, loud and painful death. LImb by limb the arborist cut. First the protruding branches, then bit by bit the canopy and finally the trunk itself. Even though we paid for this tree to be removed, halfway through the operation it felt wrong. On one level I know its absence will allow more winter light and yet I felt every bite of the blade.

While the chainsaw and tree mulcher were roaring outside, I started painting the bodies of my tree sentinels. Tangled branches entwined in an emphatic embrace as its brother was felled.

I don’t think I have ever felt this way before, certainly not when we lived in amongst the gum trees in the high country and would select a tree to fell for posts to builf with. Yet twenty years later in our suburban backyard, this tree feels significant.

It represents all the inner turmoil of the times, the overload of social media stimuli and information pounding my head for attention. The impulse to curl up inside a sheltering forest while outside the world turns and burns. To have played a part in the death of this one tree feels overly significant.

So I paint. Its a liberating feeling following the ink lines I have already traced onto paper of the twisted forms of coastal Moonah trees on the Mornington Peninsula. All those tiny twigs at the top of the canopy, like brain synapses talking to each other, whispering tales brought by the wind and sea.

Having spent time in the Takayna forest in Tasmania last year and seeing again the brave protesters who literally lay their bodies on the line to protect this threatened forest, reminds me that each tree is precious, each tree counts.

I pick up my brush and paint as if a life depends on it. I no longer live in a forest yet I feel its presence deep in my psyche. I’m painting myself into the forest as a sentinel. This will be the last tree I condemn. The garden will be left to grow wild, the canopy to regrow.

The arborist at work.