Vox Populi
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James Crews: Beech Trees in Spring
I want to be like the maples,
letting go so easily of their leaves
in the slightest autumn breeze,
surrendering every piece of themselves
they no longer need, and embracing bareness
like a new suit they can simply step into.
But I’m more like the beech trees,
which cling to the husks of their leaves
long into spring, refusing to give up
even a scrap of who they once were
until the last possible minute.
Perhaps they need the reassurance,
or maybe they’re here to lend music
to the silence of winter, leaves
beaten thin as tissue paper rustling
a lonely chorus in the snow-covered woods—
until buds push up to the surface,
and with no other choice, they say yes
to the final scatter and release,
learning again, as if for the first time,
how loss leaves room for something new.
The truth is, very few of us can be like the maples, letting go as easily as autumn leaves. We cling to what’s familiar and predictable, believing this will help us guide and control our lives. Yet there can be so much wisdom, and even joy, in “embracing bareness,” accepting the inevitable losses and transitions that come our way so that we may process them. I wrote this poem after taking a long, late winter walk through the woods, noticing the way all the beech trees still clung to their leaves, even in mid-April. Those leaves, shriveled and “beaten thin as tissue paper,” still held a quiet, transcendent beauty. For a while, they appear gold at the tips of the branches, lending a little brightness to the otherwise drab and colorless winter landscape. They also offer a “lonely chorus” to anyone who’s listening, their rustling often the only sound that accompanies me as I pass through the bare trees, not even a squirrel stirring in the snow. The morning after my walk, the image of those pale leaves, still attached to branches in spite of strong winds, ice storms, and the battering of sleet, came back to me over and over. I knew they must be trying to teach me something important.
I’ve often chided myself for staying in certain relationships or jobs for longer than I needed to, sensing the time to move on had come, but not yet wanting to upend my life and navigate the uncertain terrain that comes with change. Now, I wonder: what if the way forward in our lives seems clear only in retrospect, when we’ve already taken the right action, and we feel the thrill of finally growing toward a new path? What if we need to cling to certain people and things in order to learn our lessons most fully, to be ready for the next inevitable transition?
We know the wisdom of letting go, releasing past selves that no longer serve us. We often hold up such non-attachment as the enlightened ideal. But those beech trees seemed to preach the wisdom of holding on for as long as we need to, not trying to force our growth, or rush off in some new direction too soon. We don’t often make essential changes in our lives until the last possible minute, when there’s no longer any other choice. Such is the power of predictability and comfort. Yet none of us should feel the pressure to let go of anything or forgive anyone, before we are absolutely ready. I’ve heard from friends deep in grief about the cruelty of others who believe they should have moved on from sorrow by now, who think less of them for staying in the tangle of emotions, and welcoming each one. As author and rest coach Octavia Raheem has written: “Joy is an act of rebellion. And so is allowing ourselves to feel our grief.” We can forgive ourselves for the human need to hold on for however long we need to, no matter how many seasons it takes for us to let go and move on.
Invitation for Writing & Meditation: Describe a time in your life when you held onto something or someone longer than it seemed you needed to, in retrospect. Do you find some teacher in the natural world for embracing what arises, and letting go when the time is right?
James Crews is the recipient of the Prairie Schooner Prize and Cowles Prize. His writing has been featured in The New York Times Magazine, The New Republic, Ploughshares, and Sun Magazine.
Copyright 2024 James Crews. From Unlocking the Heart: Writing for Courage and Self-compassion (Simon and Schuster, 2024)
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James:
Now I’m going to think of which tree I’m like in this landscape. We have fewer choices, perhaps the ubiquitous sable palm some of which are over 200 yers old and 60-70 feet tall that only grow narrower and closer to heaven as they age. They wear their emotions on their sleeve, putting out frothy, aromatic flower bolts that soon turn to seed berries that drop everywhere, and throw down their many broken arms in storms, making a week’s work for us, “Adams” of the aftermath…
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Beautiful, Sean. I fantasize that I’m the elderberry living in swampy ground and producing a black slightly poisonous berry that with the right preparation produces a syrup with life-saving qualities.
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There are vast woods of beech trees in a southern part of Brussels in Belgium, and I thank James Crews for reminding me of what I so loved, when walking though them at the end of winter — with their
“leaves
beaten thin as tissue paper rustling
a lonely chorus in the snow-covered woods—
until buds push up to the surface,
and with no other choice, they say yes
to the final scatter and release,”
I will have the great joy of welcoming James Crews and Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer on May 2nd, here in my lovely Santa Barbara Public Library — and am so very much looking forward to applauding them…
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Before the plague I probably would have driven up to Santa Barbara. If you ever do a reading in San Diego, I have an empty nest house full of bedrooms where you would be welcome to stay.
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This thoughtful poetic meditation is part of Crews’s book Unlocking the Heart… Each chapter follows the same format as today’s Vox entry. The poem, the meditation by Crews on his poem, served up to the reader; and then encouragement to dialogue with it. In this style, it’s a change from a poetry anthology into an amalgam of ways for readers, and for Crews, to have a different type of dialogue…one that may open poetry’s possibilities to non-poetry readers.
As to the beech, where I live we have no beech, but instead, the paper birch, a different critter, who sheds bark, not maintains leaves.
thanks for sharing this chapter…
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Thanks, Jim.
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Yes I have the book. Must go back to it since whatever I read lately, I seem to read again for the first time later
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I love James Crews. I love his poems. I love his work in this aching world.
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I do too, Donna. Thank you.
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❤️
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I think I “discovered” James through Vox Populi. Sitting in my garden as the beauty of spring unfolds, I cling.
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Glad to introduce this wonderful poet to you, Barb.
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We can forgive ourselves for the human need to hold on for however long we need to, no matter how many seasons it takes for us to let go and move on.
So true James, although we can also pay with our lives and the lives of others if we hold on for too long…as always, your humanity is both humbling and reinforcing.
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I believe it’s only the young beeches that cling to their leaves all winter. These are the ones that you would find closer to eye level obviously then the taller older ones. Some species of oak also retain their leaves.
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Thanks, Carla.
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Beech leaves and their habit of marcescence, to use the technical term, are intriguing! I can see why we might want to see them in human terms, but it’s also good to get inside the tree mind, to understand why, actually, they —or at least why young beeches—do it.
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‘get inside the tree mind…’ I love it. Thanks, Maura.
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