Saying goodbye to Stumpy, the tree that changed my life

Editor’s note: Carol Guzy is an independent photojournalist. She was previously a staff photographer with The Washington Post and Miami Herald and is a four-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize. The views expressed here are those of the author. Read more opinion on CNN.

Sunrise on a spring day not long ago began with gentle pastel hues embracing the iconic beloved cherry tree affectionately named Stumpy at the Tidal Basin in Washington, DC. The beauty was breathtaking. Magical and painterly. The serenity a solace for the soul.

In recent years, Stumpy became a symbol of resilience, a miracle in our midst, blooming his little heart out despite the frail weathered condition of his fragile shell of a trunk. He is a social media celebrity and cautionary tale of climate change. He captured our imaginations, inspired all of us who feel broken. Aren’t we all damaged in some way? We can still bloom and transcend adversity.

Just look at Stumpy, the little tree that could. At this troubled time in our world, he offered promise. Something a fractured partisan nation could rally around.

At dawn on Easter Sunday, rays of light emanated from the Jefferson Memorial over Stumpy like the resurrection. It felt profound and sacred. It was a lesson in slowing down and embracing tranquility. I’m a news photographer. These are not usually words in my vocabulary.

His final bloom was glorious. Admirers filed past, most taking a photo, some hugging the cherished tree while bidding him a sad farewell as a renovation project was set to begin. Approximately 300 trees will be removed for a sea-wall-rebuilding effort led by the National Park Service.

I spent three months photographing Stumpy. At the end of May, he was cut down.

Most people, including me, referred to Stumpy as “he,” others say “she,” but never “it.” People treated him with palpable reverence; some wrote love notes to the tree as an act of protest against his removal. Other folks left memorial flowers at his base (and in one case, a bottle of Maker’s Mark). There was even a Stumpy mascot at the Cherry Blossom 5K race.

From those who visited, I heard many things. People saw him as an “underdog,” a “symbol of hope,” a “metaphor for our democracy.” One little girl asked, “Mommy why are they killing him?”

A lady remarked: “They always try to cut us down when we get older.”

Psychologist Evelyn Sawhill made an origami crane and tucked it into Stumpy’s peeling bark, whispering, “Don’t be afraid.” A quiet sorrow was etched on her face.

She pondered existential questions with me: Do trees have emotions? Feel pain? Do they have a soul that moves on somewhere in this great mystery called life?

Evelyn believes Stumpy felt all the love showered on him and the dedication of those of us who hung on until the end so he wouldn’t be alone. “Offering recognition and comfort and solace and understanding to any living thing is important. People who have come to do that for Stumpy have benefited more than we think. … And it is an honor, it is,” she declared.

Poet Khalil Gibran wrote, “Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky.”

I’ve been a tree hugger since childhood. Shy and lonely, I would go to the woods behind my house and commune with the trees — they were my friends. So, it wasn’t hard to become emotionally attached to Stumpers.

As a photojournalist, I’ve spent decades documenting man’s inhumanity far too often. Conflicts and injustice abound. We destroy each other and the earth. For me, to photograph the magnificent splendor of nature evoked such bliss. Until it didn’t.

I started out planning to do a sweet feature story on Stumpy, an ode to a tree. Then I got angry.

Stumpy’s destiny was dictated with no regard to the impassioned pulse of the people. Citizens overwhelmingly voiced their desire to “Save Stumpy” as a national treasure. There were petitions. Many believed at least giving him a chance by transplanting was appropriate. “Just try,” we said.

NPS spokesman Mike Litterst told local media that Stumpy was in a “mortality spiral” and would likely die of “transplant shock.” But human predictions can be fallible. The will to live is a powerful force. Stumpy had defied the odds for years. While the probability of the tree surviving relocation was slim, the only sure thing was that chopping him down made him 100% dead.

Soon petals fell like snow as if the trees were weeping for their last season. The final days were bittersweet and poignant. A rainbow appeared as if all of nature itself was offering Stumpy a grand goodbye. A flock of goslings cuddled up to the base of his trunk, appearing to offer comfort. It gave us chills.

Serenity gave way to sounds of chainsaws and tree limbs cracking. Sawdust floated in the water in place of blossoms.

Compounding the heartbreak, NPS commenced with the removal during nesting season, putting birds and their babies at violent risk. Anne Lewis, president of City WildLife, Inc., told me that safeguards such as ramps were not put in place. If unable to reach dry land in a few hours, babies get waterlogged and drown.

Avian biologists tagged trees containing nests — at one point, observers and I thanked them for tying an orange ribbon as a marker since we had been enchanted watching a starling diligently feed her young. But no one told us they are considered invasive species, not to be saved. The construction crew working on the removal trod carefully, acting with respect for both wildlife and residents.

I stood watching as the crew discovered a starling nest in a trunk just cut, but the workers put the nest gently aside, showing mercy. Some people are writing to legislators, working to enact a law to delay construction projects to protect nesting birds in the future.

There was also another alternative. I reached out to the Smithsonian to inquire about the possibility of preserving Stumpy there and was told they had already queried the NPS and been rejected. It seems shortsighted. At least cuttings will be propagated at the Arboretum, but there will never be another Stumpy.

Surely there are some NPS employees with empathy and a sincere desire to protect these precious spaces. But this tale has far greater meaning than the fate of one little tree. It is about our capacity to care and nurture rather than destroy so much in our path. It is about honoring the spiritual interconnection of all life. When you erase beauty, it is an affront to the soul. And yes, many found this misshapen hollow trunk holding up a few branches an exquisite work of art.

On Stumpy’s last sunrise, birds flocked near the isolated cage. One could imagine them bidding him farewell. Nature has an intricate language that humans have long forgotten.

Under a veil of secrecy and shrouded by black mesh fencing, during a harsh midday sun, and amid the carnage of other felled trees, Stumpy met his demise. He was so little, it took mere minutes.

Those of us who fought for Stumpy can shrug this off and decide we can’t fight City Hall. Or we take a stand to avoid future wrongs. This government organization should be working for us, not against us. We can hold NPS accountable but unfortunately, we can’t make them care.

In “The Wizard of Oz,” Dorothy said “There’s no place like home.” National parks are part of our collective home to nurture and protect. No one questions the need for sea wall renovation, simply the decisions made by NPS about how it is being done. Scores however have questioned the fate of Stumpy as dictated by NPS with little regard to the will of the people. Perhaps American citizens deserve a more compassionate steward of our land, trees, and wildlife for those who genuinely love it.

There is now an empty space on the water where beauty once lived. Perhaps the origami crane helped him fly away. One can imagine Stumpy somewhere over that rainbow, tall and majestic with eternal blooms.

We will miss you, dear little one. You were loved.