Sap in the Heart

The Impossible Apple Tree

Last month I discovered something impossible.

As I was walking down a path I frequent often I noticed a flash of green that I didn’t recognize.

When you spend a lot of time in nature, you begin to tune into the colors and shapes of the flora around you.

There was something unusual about the shade of green.

I backed up and looked down at the little green bush, and then started crying.

It was a tiny apple tree, tucked in the middle of a patch of scrub oak.

“How did you get here?” I asked, bending down to look more closely. Yup, it was indeed a miniature apple tree. I cleared out the scrub oak, created a little rock bowl around the tree, added good soil, and watered it well.

First picture of the little apple tree, looking west towards the sunset.

Here is why I cried when I saw this little friend.

First, I live in the desert. We have been in drought for years here, with snowfall down around 62% between 1955 and 2023 in some areas. It is not easy for anything to grow, and especially difficult for seeds to germinate with so little moisture.

Second, after the fire I decided I wanted to plant apple trees on the slope outside of the kitchen window.

On the drive to the land in the little village of San Geronimo there is an apple tree that is likely 200 years old. It grows next to Tecolote Creek in a cow pasture. The village adobe church is a stone's throw away. My neighbor Marla once told me that when she was young an elder in the village told her he remembered that apple tree from when he was a kid as an old tree.

Each time I drive through San Geronimo I say hi and send my love to that grand old apple tree. She is the elder of the village, along with her companion the adobe church. Some days she is bare, branches cracking the sky. Some days she is filled with delicate flowers. Some days cows stand under her canopy and munch on hundreds of fallen apples.

When the wildfire was heading towards San Geronimo a couple of years ago I prayed she would somehow survive. And she did.

So planting apple trees in the field outside the kitchen window felt like a fitting tribute to all the survivors. I wanted to plant something that would shade and feed the wildlife in a hundred years.

But each spring, when its time to plant fruit trees, I hesitate. What if they don't survive? Dealing with heartbreak of the thousands of burnt trees from the fire I felt like I couldn't lose something else I loved.

I got closer this year: I looked at apple trees at my favorite nursery in Santa Fe. I talked to the someone about what type of apple tree I should plant. (The one that flowers last, so it has more chance of surviving our late-season mountain freezes.)

And yet I still missed the get-the-fruit-tree-into-the-ground spring window this year.

So when I spotted the little hidden apple tree, which must have been seeded from a tossed apple four or so years ago, I felt the land was saying to me: “Get over yourself, sweetheart. Just plant the trees. Some will survive. Some will not. Think Johnny Appleseed. Plant. Trees.”

I call the miraculous apple tree Hope. She is thriving. The aspen trees I planted this year are struggling, and may not make it. Many of the aspens we planted last year along the creek are leafing out, despite being munched on by cows. The peach, apricot, and pine tree seeds that I planted a couple of weeks ago haven't shown any signs of life poking up through the soil. But I'll keep watering them, and then try again.

I think after tragedy it can take the heart time to get pliable and resilient again. My heart has felt brittle, dried out by winds of loss. But two years post-wildfire there is sap running through my arteries, and an apple tree growing in my heart.

This morning’s picture of the little apple tree, looking east towards the sunrise. That’s the back of our bathhouse to the right.