The Sugar Maple and the Long Now

 “You don’t plant sugar maples for yourself. You plant them for your grandchildren.”

A long time ago, a friend of mine in Oregon, who also farmed maple syrup, said something that stuck. I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but now it lives in me.

 


(This post continues from Blog 1: The Joke That Wasn’t. If you haven’t read it yet, that’s where the crack in my cynicism first began.) https://www.blogger.com/u/1/blog/post/edit/3745980224068107214/8212771631672611782

There’s something strange about legacy. You don’t really feel it when you’re racing to survive.

I used to think in weeks, months, maybe years. What job next. What bill this month. How to fix the world before bedtime. But that one sentence, about sugar maples, has been quietly reshaping how I hold time.

It takes decades for a sugar maple to produce syrup. You plant the tree knowing full well you may never benefit from it. And still, people plant them. Not for return, but because they believe someone will be there to taste the sweetness.

That idea lingered in the background for years.

Then the rivers started drying up.

The future I used to joke about - “I’ll probably be dead before it all collapses” - stopped being funny. Collapse wasn’t waiting for 2050. It was already here, showing up in drought maps, poisoned water, food insecurity, and grief that had nowhere to go.

I realized then that my joke wasn’t just flippant. It was a way of hiding.

So I began changing my clock. Not to rush. Not to fix. Just to tend.

These days, I carry the sugar maple with me. It shows up in how I listen, in how I guide others, and in how I pause when urgency pushes for speed. I may not live long enough to see the world I hope for, but I can help plant it.

And maybe that’s what legacy really is: not the fruits we get to harvest, but the care we offer for what might bloom without us.

I’d genuinely welcome your thoughts — whether you agree or disagree. But if you feel like sharing, I’m especially interested in your personal reflections… how you navigate these questions, if they matter to you. And if this resonates, feel free to share it with others who think or wonder along similar lines.

Comments

  1. Brianna ArgoteAugust 13, 2025 at 5:08 AM

    This really resonated with me. There’s something so hopeful about tending to things you may never see fully bloom—it’s love without expectation, rooted in trust that someone will be there to receive it. I’ve been learning to slow down too, to just tend what I can. Thank you for putting that feeling into words so beautifully.

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  2. GMAugust 14, 2025 at 6:25 PM

    Thank you, Brianna. You said it perfectly — “love without expectation.” That’s exactly how it feels. I think of it as tending what we can, knowing we may never see it fully bloom, but trusting someone will.

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