Crabapple Trees at the Temple

The first fall we lived at the Temple many years ago, I noticed two medium sized trees covered with small round fruit that was red and looked like cherries. But when I cut one open, instead of the one large cherry-stone I was expecting, the white flesh held a number of smaller seeds. When I took a small nibble, it was bitter.

But throughout the fall and winter these two trees were a congregating place for birds who clearly had a different opinion of the culinary merits of the hard little fruit. Often it was just a bird or two flitting from branch to branch occasionally reaching out to snack on one of the red fruit. But sometimes a whole flock would spend the morning hopping from branch to branch eating voraciously. I suppose these were the long distance travelers, stopping at the filling station to eat as many crabapples as their little stomachs could hold.

I eventually learned that these two rather ordinary looking trees are crabapple trees. My fingers slipped as I typed their name and it first appeared as carb-apple – which I suppose they are for the birds. Nutrition for the long winter ahead. Sustenance for the long journey.

One winter we lost a big chunk of one of the trees to an ice storm. I still remember climbing up a ladder with a bow saw a few days later in the bitter cold that came after the storm. A friend held the ladder steady on the icy ground while I balanced at the top pulling the saw back and forth to free the hanging branch of the main trunk. It looks so easy when someone else does it, but it took forever for us. We took turns as our arm strength gave out, but eventually we cut through and the top third of the tree crashed to the ground.

Later that season, we called the arborist to look at the damage and see what could be done. He said both crab apple trees were old and should probably be cut down and replaced. I thanked him for his advice and sent him on his way. What he didn’t seem to appreciate was what happens every spring.

In the spring, these two unassuming trees with the unappetizing name, put on a show of filigree and delight that always catches me by surprise. The trees live right outside the third floor window of my office here at the Temple. The tallest of the branches, which have grown to lushly fill in where the main trunk was trimmed by me and the ice storm, are even with my eyes as I look out. Behind these two treasured crabapples are the larger trees of the garden—the maple and oak that are now flushing the bright golden green of early spring.

The crabapple trees, old and endangered as they are, are blossoming once again. Not just one or two or even a few hundred. But thousands of delicate white and pink blossoms covering both trees. The one on the far side of the brick path is ahead again this year. It’s blossoms are already fully open. It’s like it has snowed popcorn and the bushy branches of this particular tree have caught the popped kernels before they hit the ground.

How do they do this? The exuberance of the thousands of petals and stamen and pistols, each perfectly made. Each one offering itself to the blue sky and the bees and to me. It will only be a week or two. The peak will come and I won’t know it until the day after, so I try to appreciate each day’s showing.

A blue jay flies by as the morning sun begins its descends from the tops of the trees behind. The clock on my desk ticks and ticks.

Personal Practice: Look around you and notice what sign of spring catches your eye. Give yourself the luxury of really looking at it. What are the textures, shapes and colors? Take some time to wonder about how this could possibly have came into being. Take a moment to thank this plant-being and the unimaginable source from which this delicate being arose. A miracle right here.