Trees don’t rush to heal from trauma and neither should we (by Beronda
Montgomery)
On my winter walks, I like to observe the architecture of tree
trunks. Usually trunks are hidden from view under the enrobing green foliage of
spring and summer, or the colourful blaze that typifies autumn. But as
deciduous trees prepare for winter, and the carefully orchestrated process of
leaf senescence begins, the hidden structures of trees emerge.
During the autumnal senescence, the
tree suspends active growth and recovers the nutrients of its leaves. This
process occurs first by degrading the green chlorophylls that drive
photosynthesis – the means by which plants harness light energy – and then
converting complex compounds into soluble sugars and amino acids, which
are banked over winter for use by the tree in the
following spring. Once the nutrients are resorbed, the tree begins to drop its
leaves. At the base of each leaf, a physical barrier known as an abscission
layer forms, which releases the leaf from the tree. With the leaves gone, the
trunk is in full view throughout the course of winter. It enters a state of
rest.
Some have said that
the leafless dormancy of deciduous trees in winter renders them inconspicuous.
And compared with the colourful showiness of autumn, or the vibrant display of
health and greenery of summer, I can see how the stillness of winter might be
read as unremarkable. But, for me, when deciduous trees divest themselves of
their leaves, the strength, experience and history of the trunk emerges into full view. The full girth of a tree, typically
a proxy of its age, as well as a tree’s branching and structure are on display.
Even as such deciduous trees are largely dormant and focused on maintenance and
protection from harsh conditions, the lessons that they have to offer us are
boldly active in winter, and are distinct from those lessons prevailing in
other seasons.
I and others have previously explored
the many lessons that one can learn from plants: lessons about mentoring
and supporting others in the community, lessons from trees
on resilience, and lessons from polyculture on reciprocity and the benefits of diversity. One of the profound teachings
that I have learned from winter trees is based on the observation of organismal
experiences that emerge from careful consideration of a tree’s exposed
structure. The pattern of branching, the abundance (or lack) of winter buds,
the presence of scars or wounds – all are parts of the autobiography of a tree.
Years of plenty or scarcity result in different profusions of buds and
different capacities for building up wood. The environmental context affects
how branches develop and elongate. The architecture of the tree reflects the
kind of years it lived through. Of all of these features, I’ve been deeply
impacted by what we can learn from how trees recuperate from the manifest
wounds they inevitably endure.
Wounds – whether deliberately induced through pruning or fortuitously caused by
natural disaster – become highly visible as the trees stand exposed in fall and
winter. Trees notice when there is damage or loss, and embark upon a process of
recuperation and healing. They don’t just ignore trauma or ageing in order to
get back to business as usual. Indeed, failure to respond – and respond
actively and dynamically – could result in long-term poor health, even death.
So when a wound occurs, trees initiate a protective response that often takes
place in two distinct stages – an initial, rapid chemical phase, followed by a
slower, long-term physical adaptation. The rapid chemical response to wounding
is an active attempt to limit damage by pests, who are attracted to the sugars
and plant-based chemicals (or phytochemicals) that are exposed by a wound. The
second, slower response is to physically scar over and close off the injury.
Some of the phytochemicals produced
during the chemical response to wounding serve to actively protect the
plant by functioning as antimicrobial or antifungal compounds to prevent the
establishment of disease in an open wound, which could lead to decay. In
addition to inducing protective chemical mechanisms, trees produce wound wood
or ‘callus’ (soft tissue that develops and grows over an open wound surface) in
order to slowly close over the damaged tissue. Ultimately, this walls off or
isolates an injury and provides a long-term protective barrier to infestation
by pathogens or disease-causing agents. For plants that pursue such a path,
healing results in the resolution or closing off of a traumatic or transitional
event.
During the healing process, oxygen
availability to an open tree wound facilitates the recovery process. Premature
closure of the wound can be catastrophic. Rather, it is best to let trees
follow their naturally evolved process of sealing off wounds to compartmentalise
damage. This tree wound response of seeking cleansing and healthy closure after
trauma – by keeping the wound free of infection and promoting oxygenation,
followed by covering over the wound with long-term protective scar tissue –
offers a powerful lesson from plants. Covering a wound prematurely simply to
keep the damage out of sight, without attention to openly dealing with it
through cleansing and therapeutic care, can lead to a festering of issues
rather than a healthy progression towards healing, reformulation, growth and
thriving.
Effectively healing a wound maintains
the overall health of the tree, and leads to the growth of new branches and
leaves that will support new fruits or seeds. What I learn from trees each year
is that there is a delicate balancing act in the struggle to recover from
trauma. Sometimes, a path must be closed off to avoid sickness, atrophy, loss;
other times, one must recognise when it is time to build a new path to allow
the continuation of one’s core purpose, work and impact. Some paths are there
to be turned away from, others to be followed and renewed. In winter, you can
see the paths a tree has taken.
I believe we humans too frequently
think that the expected response to trauma is to pursue a path of prompt
forgiveness and a quick return to ‘normal’. While this is sometimes feasible,
and certainly reconciliation has its merits, there are alternative ways to heal
and move forward based on closure and a redirection of energy. The healing of
wounds in trees – the closing off or protective sealing off of a tissue, and
the ensuing construction of new living paths inclusive of sugar-transporting
phloem tissues and water-passing xylem structures – allows the continued
pursuit of a tree’s core purpose. This wound-healing paradigm exemplifies that,
to remain alive, some paths have to be closed and new possibilities pursued. I
have used these lessons to move forward in both personal and professional
realms.
There are singular moments when these
lessons root deeply in my consciousness. Major disruptions such as the global
pandemic can be met in multiple ways: a desire for a return to normalcy and a
need for massive restructuring of our responses to the trauma of sickness and
death. Reflecting on unique lessons from healing responses to trauma and
transition in trees invites us to ask how we can best ensure both rapid
responses to prevent damage during the presence of an open wound, and the
long-term responses of seeking closure and forging new paths ahead, rather than
defaulting to attempts to resume pre-trauma definitions of normalcy. The
lessons are there for our learning and application, if we look to winter trees
as teachers.
Trees don’t rush to heal from trauma and neither should we | Psyche Ideas
