Future Forests
Trees have a way of talking to each other
Right in front of you
Underground and airborne languages
Through reaching roots
Leaves fluttering in filtered sunlight
Vibration and scent
Nourishing and protecting
A communion
A blueprint for living in this world
I lie here in wonder beneath the canopy
Admiring their stature, strength, and beauty
Their slow, steady grace
I visit trees and call them friends
I hug them
Press my palm to trunks
Run my fingers through their needles
Memorizing their memory
Longing to learn their language
Listening
And yet, despite my heart
I am still a predator
Part of a culture of extraction
Disease carried across continents
Along the suburban fence line
I poison them
Dig them up by the roots
Cut them down like weeds
A casual, hypocritical violence
One hundred years ago
The American Elm
Lined the streets of
Newly blooming cities but
The wars brought more than
Death to our troops
Death to our trees
Invasively spreading through bark beetle
And through their precious roots
Disease claiming those who were
Close enough to touch each other
Death by proximity
Urban blight
I am planting 1000 elms for you
Meditations on the things we love
What we will do when they are gone
The pain we inflict and feel or ignore
Meditations on future forests
On communicating under the ground
And through the air
On finding new ways to be in this world together
Right in front of you
Underground and airborne languages
Through reaching roots
Leaves fluttering in filtered sunlight
Vibration and scent
Nourishing and protecting
A communion
A blueprint for living in this world
I lie here in wonder beneath the canopy
Admiring their stature, strength, and beauty
Their slow, steady grace
I visit trees and call them friends
I hug them
Press my palm to trunks
Run my fingers through their needles
Memorizing their memory
Longing to learn their language
Listening
And yet, despite my heart
I am still a predator
Part of a culture of extraction
Disease carried across continents
Along the suburban fence line
I poison them
Dig them up by the roots
Cut them down like weeds
A casual, hypocritical violence
One hundred years ago
The American Elm
Lined the streets of
Newly blooming cities but
The wars brought more than
Death to our troops
Death to our trees
Invasively spreading through bark beetle
And through their precious roots
Disease claiming those who were
Close enough to touch each other
Death by proximity
Urban blight
I am planting 1000 elms for you
Meditations on the things we love
What we will do when they are gone
The pain we inflict and feel or ignore
Meditations on future forests
On communicating under the ground
And through the air
On finding new ways to be in this world together
The sprawling elm tree in my neighbor’s yard launched a massive crop of seeds last spring, covering the neighborhood. Perhaps it was part of a mast year event for the elms, when trees coordinate their high production of fruits, seeds, or samaras every few years, in hopes of increasing seedling survival. This year, the samaras seemed to get into everything. I was sweeping them off my kitchen floor, carrying them across the country tucked into the mats of my car, finding them in my hair, the shower, and my bed. I am still finding them, five months later—one on my coffee table as I write, another in the gap of the floorboards. By the end of June, the seeds covering my yard took root and began to grow in sidewalk cracks, the garden, already-occupied flower pots, the lawn, sprouting out from under bricks.
What if I just let them go? What if we all just let them grow? How many of them would grow up to be towering trees, cracking the corners of our concrete foundations? How long would it take to cover this place in forest again? The Des Plaines River runs less than a mile from my home. It’s the ideal place for American Elms, also called River Elms or Water Elms, to grow their community. Why not just extend the forest preserves? It’s called Forest Park, after all.
Looking around at the sprouting saplings, I guessed there had to be at least 1000 of them in my yard alone, and it turns out, I was right. I spent most of the summer counting and carefully digging the seedlings out of my yard, meditating on them, observing their root systems with fascination. Some sprouted in tough, rocky areas, with almost no roots at all. Others the same size, growing in soil, had roots reaching down six inches or more. Some had one long, major root; others split into two or three.
Instead of tossing the seedlings onto the compost heap, like a weed, I planted them in some recycled nursery pots in hopes of finding them new homes. Adoption. Nursery pots. Baby trees. Mother trees. Lullabies. Why do they even need new homes? Who am I in this story?
As the weeks went on, I noticed that some of the tiny elm leaves were badly eaten, some yellowed or speckled, some withered in the hot stretches of 90-degree days. I felt a level of anxiety about keeping these trees, their ancestors, casualties of a death by proximity, all in one place. What if one became sick and spread it to the others? What if by accidentally introducing a predator to the whole group, I was just creating an evening buffet for the leaf beetles and slugs? I contemplated natural pesticides, but worried the young trees might be too sensitive. My efforts soon became just as much about keeping the trees alive as finding them new homes. After planting about 300 trees, I moved them to my screened-in porch to limit access for the pests and provide shade from the hot summer sun. But I still lost dozens.
Over the course of two months of slow planting, the tiny porch “nursery” grew to hold over 1000 elms. Less than two weeks before I had hoped to give away these tiny trees out of a greenhouse beneath a pair of hundred-year-old elms, I reached out to the local arboretum for some advice related to the project. “I have serious concerns about your project,” the arborist responded. He explained what I had feared all along. These seedlings, which are still susceptible to Dutch Elm Disease, could potentially put the life of a survivor elm tree in danger of infection if planted too closely. He wanted to know if, on such a large scale, I could actually control where people planted the trees. Could I verify that there were no survivor elms near the planting sites? “It is difficult to quantify what the risk might be.”
I was heartbroken. Here were these innocent little lives that might never actually be a threat, but because of the possibility of infection, or because someone might not plant them considerately, because we couldn’t trust everyone to take the time and caution to ensure they were planted responsibly, the better solution was to let them die. Here were these trees, a species that once lived together in community on riverbanks, that would now need to live apart, far enough away to ensure their roots could never touch, if they wanted any chance of survival. A hundred feet on the scale of a tree might not seem like much, but root systems are an important part of how trees communicate and care for each other. Survival in isolation seemed to be the only responsible option. Was it a good option? It wasn’t very long ago that friends and family couldn’t share meals or hug each other due to the very real possibility that infection could lead to death. Isolation is another kind of heartache.
I cried in my friend’s office talking about the possibility of death for these trees, about not having confirmed this suspicion earlier, about the implications, about the responsibility, about why we do anything, about crying in the first place when most of the trees probably wouldn’t have made it through the winter, about the wreck of the metaphor. The more I talked with people about it, the more I felt that I could find an answer in community, in the very thing I was mourning for these trees. I started asking friends, acquaintances, experts what I might do with these trees.
Lock them in the greenhouse, and let them die to save the survivors. It’s poetic, but brutal. Have a ceremony where they’re tossed into a bonfire. Replant them back into my yard with friends. Take a 1000 mile road trip, stopping to plant one every mile. Plant them on a friend’s family farm in Indiana that had not been growing things since farm bills made it more profitable to grow nothing. Plant them on my family’s farm land in upstate New York. Press them. Guild them. Continue caring for them through the winter. Make a time lapse of the growing forest. Send them with trusted people and very specific planting instructions. Create a research team that scouts riverbanks with no elms and plants new groves in those locations. Slow down. There were other kinds of seeds being planted in the conversations around these ideas.
What does it mean to dismantle a future forest? What does it mean to care for a future forest? How does human intervention impede or nurture life outside our own? How do care and community manifest amongst plant life? How can plants teach us to care for the futures of all life?
“I am planting 1000 elms for you,” felt romantic when I wrote it down, like a grand gesture of love. Perhaps grand gestures come with their own share of anxieties about potential misunderstandings, emptiness, or misplaced energies. But still, there may be some substance in a symbolic act. What if we could muster a “mast year” to do something immense together, knowing that some forests are more difficult to plant than others, that not everything takes root, not everything survives the pests and the heat, not everything works despite our best intentions, and yet, thousands could spring up. What kinds of survivals could we be a part of? What could that gesture look like?
Future Forests is a love poem and practice about finding ways to survive in our current situation—how to live with grief, anxiety, and conflict, and find new ways of being through community, acts of love, care, and reciprocity.
The accompanying sound piece Lullaby for 1000 Elms was composed by Alexander Morgan after the loss of two neighboring trees for the sake of a three-car garage. Envisioning this as the first part of a longer score, this particular section is a lullaby for a young forest, an encouragement for them to grow. Once the trees are established and strong, the piece would transition into a call to rise up in a stationary protest march.
If you are interested in scouting safe planting areas for elms, please get in touch. The maples, seeds, plants, and vegetables in the Future Forests greenhouse were lovingly collected and cared for by Katherine Sifers and Mara Baker. Thanks also to Michael Cunningham, David Ouellette, and Rosanne Young for their care and contributions to the project. Please take whatever plants you can use or share from the greenhouse. Feel free to contribute seeds and plants to share. Your care is an extension of ours. We are all doing the best we can.
What if I just let them go? What if we all just let them grow? How many of them would grow up to be towering trees, cracking the corners of our concrete foundations? How long would it take to cover this place in forest again? The Des Plaines River runs less than a mile from my home. It’s the ideal place for American Elms, also called River Elms or Water Elms, to grow their community. Why not just extend the forest preserves? It’s called Forest Park, after all.
Looking around at the sprouting saplings, I guessed there had to be at least 1000 of them in my yard alone, and it turns out, I was right. I spent most of the summer counting and carefully digging the seedlings out of my yard, meditating on them, observing their root systems with fascination. Some sprouted in tough, rocky areas, with almost no roots at all. Others the same size, growing in soil, had roots reaching down six inches or more. Some had one long, major root; others split into two or three.
Instead of tossing the seedlings onto the compost heap, like a weed, I planted them in some recycled nursery pots in hopes of finding them new homes. Adoption. Nursery pots. Baby trees. Mother trees. Lullabies. Why do they even need new homes? Who am I in this story?
As the weeks went on, I noticed that some of the tiny elm leaves were badly eaten, some yellowed or speckled, some withered in the hot stretches of 90-degree days. I felt a level of anxiety about keeping these trees, their ancestors, casualties of a death by proximity, all in one place. What if one became sick and spread it to the others? What if by accidentally introducing a predator to the whole group, I was just creating an evening buffet for the leaf beetles and slugs? I contemplated natural pesticides, but worried the young trees might be too sensitive. My efforts soon became just as much about keeping the trees alive as finding them new homes. After planting about 300 trees, I moved them to my screened-in porch to limit access for the pests and provide shade from the hot summer sun. But I still lost dozens.
Over the course of two months of slow planting, the tiny porch “nursery” grew to hold over 1000 elms. Less than two weeks before I had hoped to give away these tiny trees out of a greenhouse beneath a pair of hundred-year-old elms, I reached out to the local arboretum for some advice related to the project. “I have serious concerns about your project,” the arborist responded. He explained what I had feared all along. These seedlings, which are still susceptible to Dutch Elm Disease, could potentially put the life of a survivor elm tree in danger of infection if planted too closely. He wanted to know if, on such a large scale, I could actually control where people planted the trees. Could I verify that there were no survivor elms near the planting sites? “It is difficult to quantify what the risk might be.”
I was heartbroken. Here were these innocent little lives that might never actually be a threat, but because of the possibility of infection, or because someone might not plant them considerately, because we couldn’t trust everyone to take the time and caution to ensure they were planted responsibly, the better solution was to let them die. Here were these trees, a species that once lived together in community on riverbanks, that would now need to live apart, far enough away to ensure their roots could never touch, if they wanted any chance of survival. A hundred feet on the scale of a tree might not seem like much, but root systems are an important part of how trees communicate and care for each other. Survival in isolation seemed to be the only responsible option. Was it a good option? It wasn’t very long ago that friends and family couldn’t share meals or hug each other due to the very real possibility that infection could lead to death. Isolation is another kind of heartache.
I cried in my friend’s office talking about the possibility of death for these trees, about not having confirmed this suspicion earlier, about the implications, about the responsibility, about why we do anything, about crying in the first place when most of the trees probably wouldn’t have made it through the winter, about the wreck of the metaphor. The more I talked with people about it, the more I felt that I could find an answer in community, in the very thing I was mourning for these trees. I started asking friends, acquaintances, experts what I might do with these trees.
Lock them in the greenhouse, and let them die to save the survivors. It’s poetic, but brutal. Have a ceremony where they’re tossed into a bonfire. Replant them back into my yard with friends. Take a 1000 mile road trip, stopping to plant one every mile. Plant them on a friend’s family farm in Indiana that had not been growing things since farm bills made it more profitable to grow nothing. Plant them on my family’s farm land in upstate New York. Press them. Guild them. Continue caring for them through the winter. Make a time lapse of the growing forest. Send them with trusted people and very specific planting instructions. Create a research team that scouts riverbanks with no elms and plants new groves in those locations. Slow down. There were other kinds of seeds being planted in the conversations around these ideas.
What does it mean to dismantle a future forest? What does it mean to care for a future forest? How does human intervention impede or nurture life outside our own? How do care and community manifest amongst plant life? How can plants teach us to care for the futures of all life?
“I am planting 1000 elms for you,” felt romantic when I wrote it down, like a grand gesture of love. Perhaps grand gestures come with their own share of anxieties about potential misunderstandings, emptiness, or misplaced energies. But still, there may be some substance in a symbolic act. What if we could muster a “mast year” to do something immense together, knowing that some forests are more difficult to plant than others, that not everything takes root, not everything survives the pests and the heat, not everything works despite our best intentions, and yet, thousands could spring up. What kinds of survivals could we be a part of? What could that gesture look like?
Future Forests is a love poem and practice about finding ways to survive in our current situation—how to live with grief, anxiety, and conflict, and find new ways of being through community, acts of love, care, and reciprocity.
The accompanying sound piece Lullaby for 1000 Elms was composed by Alexander Morgan after the loss of two neighboring trees for the sake of a three-car garage. Envisioning this as the first part of a longer score, this particular section is a lullaby for a young forest, an encouragement for them to grow. Once the trees are established and strong, the piece would transition into a call to rise up in a stationary protest march.
If you are interested in scouting safe planting areas for elms, please get in touch. The maples, seeds, plants, and vegetables in the Future Forests greenhouse were lovingly collected and cared for by Katherine Sifers and Mara Baker. Thanks also to Michael Cunningham, David Ouellette, and Rosanne Young for their care and contributions to the project. Please take whatever plants you can use or share from the greenhouse. Feel free to contribute seeds and plants to share. Your care is an extension of ours. We are all doing the best we can.
