DW's Blog

The Silent Teachers Among Us: Why Trees Hold My Heart

by DW Green — July 16, 2025

“Trees stand as living proof that quiet persistence can move mountains—one root, one ring, one season at a time.”

There’s something that happens when I stand before a tree—any tree. Whether it’s the ancient oak in my neighborhood park or the slender birch swaying in my backyard, I find myself drawn into a world that speaks in whispers older than human language.

The Language of the Senses

Trees speak first through our senses. The earthy sweetness of pine needles crushed underfoot. The rich, loamy scent that rises from bark after rain. Each species carries its own signature fragrance—the sharp clarity of eucalyptus, the warm vanilla notes of ponderosa pine, the green freshness of maple in spring.

Then there’s the texture that calls to our most primal curiosity. Run your fingers along bark and you’ll discover a universe of sensation. The smooth, almost skin-like surface of a beech tree. The deep furrows of an old oak, sticky with sap that seems to hold the very essence of life itself.

Funny how perspective changes. As a kid, I’d inevitably get tree sap on my fingers—that impossibly stubborn stuff that no amount of soap and water could budge. Back then, it was just annoying. Now I find myself seeking out that same tackiness, marveling at how it speaks of something vital flowing beneath the surface, a reminder that these seemingly still giants are very much alive.

The Hidden Network

What amazes me most is what science has only recently begun to understand—trees don’t stand alone. Beneath our feet, an intricate network of roots and fungi creates what researchers call the ‘wood wide web.’ Through this underground internet, trees share resources, warn each other of insect attacks, and even nurture their young. A mother tree recognizes her offspring and sends them more nutrients. When drought strikes, healthier trees share water with their struggling neighbors. When pests attack, chemical signals race through the forest, allowing distant trees to begin producing defensive compounds before the threat arrives.

This revelation transforms how I see a forest. What appears to be a collection of individual trees is actually a community, a living system where cooperation trumps competition, where the health of one depends on the well-being of all.

Living Teachers of Patience

Trees embody lessons I’m still learning. They’re rooted yet flexible, bending with storms that would break more rigid things. They grow slowly, adding one ring at a time, understanding that strength comes not from speed but from patience and persistence. They offer their gifts freely—shade on hot days, oxygen with every breath, beauty in every season—without asking for anything in return. They surrender their leaves each fall, trusting that spring will come again. They stand as monuments to faith in cycles beyond our human understanding.

The Sacred Pause

In our hurried world, trees invite us to slow down. They operate on geological time, measuring change in seasons and decades rather than minutes and hours. Standing beneath their canopy, I feel my own rhythm shift, my breathing deepen, my shoulders relax. They remind me that growth happens in its own time, that there’s wisdom in putting down roots while reaching toward light, that community and individual flourishing aren’t opposites but partners in the dance of life.

A Daily Practice

Living in the Pacific Northwest in the 90s, I discovered I’d somehow joined the ranks of what locals called “tree huggers”—though back then it carried political weight I hadn’t fully considered. While others debated forest management and commercial use, I was simply drawn to touch these towering giants, to feel their presence.

These days, my four giant palm trees and beautiful ficus in my backyard have become my regular companions. I’ll admit it—I hug them. There’s something unexpectedly intimate about wrapping your arms around a palm tree’s surprisingly smooth bark, feeling its solid presence, acknowledging its quiet magnificence. My neighbors might think I’m eccentric, but I’ve learned that trees respond to appreciation, and I want them to know their beauty doesn’t go unnoticed.

My love for trees has become a daily practice. I seek them out on morning walks, pause to really see them, to breathe in their presence. I’ve learned to identify them by their bark, their leaves, their stance. Each encounter feels like a conversation with an old friend who has much to teach and infinite patience to teach it.

In a world that often feels disconnected and rushed, trees offer a return to something essential. They remind us that we’re part of something larger, older, and more interconnected than we often remember. They stand as living proof that quiet persistence can move mountains—one root, one ring, one season at a time. Perhaps that’s why I find myself drawn to them again and again. In their presence, I remember what it means to be grounded, to grow gradually, to offer gifts without attachment, and to trust in the deeper rhythms that connect us all.