When I Talked to a Tree Today 

She told me she was feeling a little sad. So it’s time for some tree medicine.

For almost 30 years, we had a crepe myrtle tree in our backyard. It became part of the landscape of our lives, and when it finally died, I felt the loss more than I expected. A tree can become so familiar that you almost stop noticing it—until it’s gone.

Now we have a new crepe myrtle.

Today, while I was watering her, I found myself thinking that I should probably be talking to her more.

I know that might sound a little strange to some people. But I talk to trees. And the more time I spend paying attention to them, the more I believe they have their own way of communicating. I can feel her presence, and somehow I think she can feel mine. I understand her, and lately I’ve begun to wonder if she understands me, too.

I also have a feeling she might have a little crush on Dave.

But I digress.

I recently read The Island of Missing Trees, one of my favorite books I’ve read in years. We read it for Book Club, and I loved the way the fig tree in the story became one of the main characters. It made me think about trees more deeply—as witnesses, keepers of memory, and living beings with their own stories.

So here is our new tree, just beginning her story with us.

Unfortunately, the welcome from the backyard bunnies was not exactly warm.

They tried to eat her bark.

We’ve since wrapped her trunk to protect her, because apparently she needs a little help getting established in this family.

I’ve also hung a gong in her branches.

I put it there because sometimes I want to say a prayer to her. Other times I simply want to talk. And when I’m finished, I ring the gong.

But I don’t ring it casually.

I ring it with purpose and intention—with love, peace, health, and gratitude.

I tell her that she is part of our family now. That she is safe. That we will take care of her. And that, in her own way, I know she will take care of us, too.

Then I ring the gong and imagine those vibrations traveling through her branches, through her leaves, and down into the earth.

Today, though, I had the feeling that she was telling me she was a little sad.

Maybe it’s because she’s still getting settled. Maybe it’s the rabbits. Maybe she’s simply having one of those days.

Or maybe I was the one who needed to slow down enough to notice.

Either way, I think it’s time for some tree medicine.

Maybe tree medicine is simply this: stopping for a moment, putting your hands on the trunk, looking up into the leaves, and remembering that we are surrounded by living things that are growing, adapting, healing, and becoming.

And maybe sometimes they need us to talk to them.

Maybe sometimes we need to listen.