The Old Bat of Mid-Coast Maine feels compelled to explain her actions before she is formally reported and forced to testify before whatever governing body oversees tree and shrub-related incidents.

Sometimes your life is shattered by rapid, unexpected and brutal changes that leave you unable to meet the responsibilities left in your world gracefully. You, in fact, shed everything that isn’t essential just to maintain your ability to stay upright on a daily basis.

I didn’t just wake up one day and “decide to improve my property.” I simply created a space I could survive in.

What I did was not reckless or impulsive. There were circumstances:

1. My husband is ill and can no longer participate in any household chores. I must care for him—as well as all the chores inside and outside of our home.
2. Our house had mold and moisture issues and experts advised us to improve airflow around our home by removing trees and pucker brush.
3. Our back porch had become unusable unless one swept and washed it daily like a full-time job. (Think leaves, bird droppings, branches, catkins, etc.).
4. Birds treated our porch like it was an all-inclusive resort. (I set up a reading tent so I didn’t get pooped on every time I went out there to read).
5. Ticks and brown tail moths had decided our yard was part of their long-term housing plan.
6. I realized how physically, emotionally, and mentally exhausted I had become.
7. At some point, I realized the yard and I were no longer in a healthy relationship.

It wasn’t so much the rest of the trees, as it was the oaks and the overgrowth of pucker brush. Thistle, scrub, thorns. You name it. I had it. The slow, creeping takeover made the outdoor space feel less like a yard and more like an untamed jungle.

Yes. I admit it. I did, in fact, murder some trees and replaced them with a lawn.

It started, as these things often do, with good intentions. The need for a little more light, a little more air, a little less debris.

A modest desire to walk across my yard without needing a machete and a tetanus shot.

I thought, This will be nice. I won’t have so much work to do in the spring and fall now.

The trees thought, Well… we had a good run.

The pucker brush thought, Uh oh, we’re screwed.

And for one set of neighbors… I apparently triggered an unintended deeply emotional response.

Now, I understand that change can be unsettling. Trees disappears, and suddenly time itself feels less reliable. A patch of sunlight appears where none existed before, and people begin to question the very fabric of reality. Or, at the very least, my decision-making.

A few days ago, I found myself standing in my yard looking at actual grass where chaos once reigned, thinking: This is lovely.

At that exact same moment, I am fairly certain someone nearby was thinking: This is hideous. What has this wench done? Who does she think she is?

And then, in what I can only describe as a bold attempt at community goodwill, I offered to take down a dead tree for a neighbor. 

Not a thriving, majestic symbol of life. A dead one. Leaning. With a point at the end of it that suggested it had already chosen a target and was simply waiting for the right opportunity to impale its object of choice.

This was not received as the generous gesture I had imagined. Instead, I was informed that the woodpeckers enjoyed that tree and I had, in fact, “ruined the neighborhood,” and that they no longer liked living here.

Now, I had been prepared for “No, thank you.”

I had not been prepared for the complete emotional collapse of an entire zip code.

And here is what fascinates me. The changes I made? They solved very real problems for me and made my life far easier. Airflow improved. The porch is mostly usable now. The birds and chipmunks have reconsidered their level of enthusiasm for our house. So—I don’t think most of us actually mind change that we decide to make. We mind other people’s changes.

When I decided to make a few modifications to my yard, I believed I was engaging in a beautification project and making spring and fall cleanup a breeze for myself.

What I did not realize was that I was, in fact, provoking some pretty resounding resentment from a neighbor. (Apple trees have now been planted which will eventually block our tiny sliver of an ocean view—so clearly, we are all making choices. But no matter, perhaps I’ll eventually make enough money writing so that one day I’ll be able to add a tower to our home and this will no longer be a issue).

This little escapade of mine has been a learning experience. Suffice it to say, apparently, there are rules. Unwritten, unspoken, deeply enforced rules about what one may or may not do when you move into a neighborhood, and I, it seems, broke those rules.

Unfortunately, life is not through with me yet. It continues to teach me that sometimes change shows up all at once—fast, uninvited, and without asking if you’re ready—and you are left carrying more than you ever imagined possible.

And in that moment, you don’t just suddenly become more capable. You become more honest with yourself about what you can and cannot do. You become more honest about what matters and what no longer does.

I made a space I could actually manage while everything else in my life asks more of me than I have to give. I didn’t change my yard because I really wanted to. I changed it because I had to make room for everything else life is throwing at me.

Which did lead me to a realization that I suspect applies far beyond trees and shrubbery:

Most of us say we want change. We admire it. We encourage it. We even applaud it—right up until it happens close enough to affect us.

The truth is, change rarely feels inspiring when you’re forced inside of it, especially when it doesn’t feel necessary in your own life.

So yes. I committed arboricide. In the place of some trees and pucker brush, I have installed… a lawn. A calm, open, non-threatening lawn. One that asks for less. One that gives a little space back.

Will resentment eventually fade for me? Time will tell.

This experience, though, has taught me sometimes change arrives because life quietly looks at us and says—you don’t get to carry all of this anymore. Say bye-bye to some things… or I promise I will take you under.

So, I am learning to put things down—and some of those things just happened to be a few trees. 

I apologize for any offense caused and for briefly stepping into my role as a saucy, impudent wench.

It was not my intention… but it does seem to be one of my stronger skill sets.

What can I say? My life is a work in progress.