January 7th 07

It happened so fast. Chatting at the gate, the small digger was digging a shallow trench a short distance away. Too late to call out to ‘watch the tree’ as, even as I open my mouth in protest the claws of the digger had the whitethorn in its grip, had ripped it from its socket and tossed it over the wall. ‘It was damaged anyway’ my neighbour said registering my reaction. And indeed it was. Two years previously coming home one evening, I noticed it had got a whack from a tractor and had tilted over, many of its branches touching the ground and a great gash in its side. It must have been summer for I remember the bright greenery of it, much of which I had to lop off in order to restore its balance and to clear a space for my shoulder to heave it back into a semi-upright position. And in that permanently bowed position it continued over the last two years as bright and as green as the other whitethorns that adorn the landscape and offer so much to our bird populations. And now, after 7 or 8 years of growing, it was gone.

My poor whitethorn. Whacked again. When the digger departed late in the evening I crossed over into the field. Stretched to its full length, the tree was bigger than I imagined. The base had been split and much of the root system broken off. It being too heavy to lift, the large pruning tongs was put to savage amputation and eventually, all gates open, I dragged it slowly like a fallen soldier across the lane way, up the driveway, over the fallen debris of rocks and branches and up the slippery muddy incline to where I decided it should now reside. Over the next 5 days, miserable weather often forces me indoors, but yesterday my back breaking effort of digging through such heavy soil was completed. Today I am up early but the rain and wind are ahead of me. The old blanket, thrown over its roots to protect it from frost, weighs a sodden ton as I take it off and drag the tree into an upright position to gauge that the excavation has mirrored the jagged root system of one strand running along just beneath surface, the other plunging down a good 4 feet. Neither section is deep enough. An hour later I’m in a treacherous land slide situation, my thoughts none too joyful, no ‘season of good will thoughts’ gurgling in my brain. The barrow is water logged and immovable, the spade has put on considerable weight, and the earth has made a cast of my two knees which when I try to get up, holds me fast. I glance over at my fallen soldier and miserable as I am, the poor creature is far worse. I stagger up, do a Tibetan Healing Movement exercise and drag him upright next to me. I hadn’t given any thought to how I would balance him in the ripping wind, but as soon as I position him a strange thing happened: the tree remains perfectly still, stands to attention, holding fast while I piled in the clay while with renewed energy and 20 minutes later I stand back look at my installation, long in the execution yes, but in the end, well done. Now I’m off: invited out to lunch: well earned.