Dear Fallen Tree, Thank You for Being a Nurse Log

In At Home in the World, Thầy mentions several trees as living beings that offer us a sense of belonging, interbeing, and rootedness. I especially love his reflection on an olive tree in Italy that appeared to be four separate trees but was, in fact, one.

As he explains, many years earlier the weather had become so cold that all the olive trees seemed to die. Yet deep below the surface, at the level of the roots, they were still alive. After the harsh winter, when spring arrived, young shoots emerged. Instead of growing back as a single trunk, the trees sprouted three or four trunks. On the surface, it appeared that there were several olive trees, but in reality they were one organism, revealing their deep interconnectedness.

I have also learned that in Greece there are olive trees that have lived for thousands of years. Some continue bearing fruit despite hollow trunks and ancient wounds. Will theycontinue to live forever?

And even when they die, their living force continues.

I write this from Plum Village’s Lower Hamlet, where next to the creek where Thầy loved to sit, there is a fallen tree trunk, visible in this photo, covered with life. Here we are celebrating spring, but even in fallen trees we can celebrate the birth of new life. Spring dwells within fallen trees, offering a beautiful example of how life continues even in apparent death.

A fallen tree does not mark the end of life. Often, it marks the beginning of an entire miniature ecosystem. It becomes a nourishing ancestor to a whole cosmos of life.

In forest ecology, this phenomenon is widely studied. These fallen giants are known as nurse logs. As the wood breaks down, it creates a nutrient-rich, moisture-retaining bed where seeds germinate and saplings grow. Beyond supporting new plants, a decaying trunk nourishes an entire web of life.

I often find myself feeling deep gratitude for trees, but lately especially for those that continue serving long after they have fallen. Even years after their passing, they remain homes for countless beings. They continue giving. They continue participating in the
unfolding of life. They continue serving the Earth.

Here is my gratitude letter:

Dear Fallen Tree,

Thank you for allowing wasps to lay their eggs in your hidden hollows; and birds to build nests within your cavities softened by time. Fungi spread quietly through your bark and roots. Life finds its way easily into your fallen, decaying wood.

You are a living example of how death nourishes life.

When one of your family members falls, fungi, bacteria, and insects begin the long process of decomposition. Slowly, your hard wood softens and transforms into rich organic matter filled with nutrients such as nitrogen and phosphorus. Over time, the log becomes a form of natural compost.

As your body decays, your trunk holds moisture like a sponge. Seeds settle there. Mosses spread. Ferns unfurl. Young trees take root directly within your rotting wood, nourished by water, shelter, and freedom from much of the competition found on the forest floor.

Fungi are among your closest friends, playing an especially important role beneath your decaying body through their mycorrhizal networks. Even as you decompose, you continue participating in this hidden system, sustaining nearby growth and supporting new seedlings.

You also shelter insects, amphibians, birds, and small mammals. Their presence brings movement, waste, and further decomposition, helping accelerate the cycle of renewal.

Years—sometimes decades—pass before your body fully disappears into the forest floor. Yet by then, you have already nourished another generation of life: young trees rising from your remains and continuing the lineage of connection.

Even though the common perception is that you are dead, the deeper truth is that you continue.

You become shelter, nourishment, moisture, protection, and home. What appears to be an ending is often simply transformation—life continuing in another form.

You do not cease your offerings when you fall. Instead, you soften and give of yourself so that others may grow. You cradle new saplings. You nourish unseen worlds. Thank you for becoming a nursery for the next generation of the forest.

You teach us that every ending contains a beginning, and that what we call death may simply be life changing form.

With gratitude,

Your Grateful Admirer

Perhaps this is why ancient olive trees move me so deeply. Their trunks twist, split open, hollow, and decay, yet life continues flowing through them. They remind me that continuation is not dependent upon the permanence of form. A tree may lose its original shape, but not its essence.

Like our ancestors, they continue through roots, seeds, nourishment, memory, and the life they sustain around them. They remind us that continuation is woven into the very fabric of existence.

Looking deeply, we can see that they have never truly died at all.