Memory of Soil & Movement of Life

There is a quiet memory hidden beneath the soil. It is not the kind I can see or touch, but one that trees, roots and microbes share. It is a memory that shapes the fate of new life planted where old life once stood.

Sometimes, when an old fruit tree dies, I have to replace it with a new one. There is always a small ache in doing so, as if I am saying goodbye to an old friend, however it has to be done. One village elder once told me never to plant the same type of tree in the same spot. “If an apple tree dies,” he said, “it is better to plant a peach, a plum, or an apricot, but not another apple.” He did not know why, but his advice carried the quiet wisdom of generations who had watched and learned from the land.

When I began to look into it and spoke with others, I started to understand. The tree that once stood there had grown strong and deep-rooted. Its mature roots were thick and widespread, capable of resisting the pathogens that live in the soil. But a young sapling, with tender and fragile roots, faces the same earth without the same strength. It cannot fight those invisible enemies in quite the same way.

There is another reason too. Each species of tree feeds differently. One might draw more of certain minerals or nutrients than another. The difference may be small, but after years of growth it becomes important. So planting a different kind of fruit tree gives the soil a chance to rest and renew itself. It allows balance to return.

I have seen this in my own orchard. The soil remembers. Over time, the roots of a tree create their own world beneath the surface. Bacteria, fungi and countless tiny creatures adapt to that tree’s way of life. Some become partners, helping it grow, while others turn into quiet adversaries, feeding on its remains. When I plant the same kind of tree again in the same spot, it finds a world already shaped against it. The soil feels reluctant, almost weary. In the early days of my orchard, I replaced a few old apple trees with new ones. Very few of them survived, and those that did still struggle after many years, their growth hesitant and slow.

But when I plant something different, the story changes completely. A cherry where an apple once stood, or a chestnut where a plum once grew, seems to find the ground more welcoming. The places where I replaced apples with plums are now a joy to see in summer—strong, leafy trees laden with dark, juicy fruit. The soil organisms do not yet know what to make of the newcomer. Gradually, new relationships form. The soil learns to recognise and accept its new resident, and the young roots spread with quiet confidence. It feels like watching renewal take shape in silence, a reminder that variety and change breathe life back into tired ground.

I have also noticed that trees seem to follow their own kind, almost like families with shared habits and needs. Apples and pears, for instance, behave in similar ways, so replacing an old apple with a pear or even a plum does not help much. They belong to the same group of fruits known as pomes. Likewise, plums, cherries, peaches and apricots all fall under the group of stone fruits, and planting one after another from this family often brings the same problems, though to a lesser extent than planting the exact same type. It helps to think in terms of these natural groupings when deciding what to plant next. Choosing a tree from a different group gives the soil a better chance to recover and start afresh.

I often think about how closely this idea of replant disease and requirement of a change mirrors the lives of people and the way we adapt. Migration, which we see all around us, seems to follow the same pattern. Hill folk who have lived here for generations face the same struggles year after year. The absence of good healthcare, the lack of steady income, the constant raids of monkeys, wild boars and other pests on their crops. Children of hill folk find it difficult to flourish here. Many leave for the cities, hoping for a better life. And at the same time, people from cities, weary of noise, pollution and crowds, come here seeking peace.

It is much like planting a new kind of tree in the place of an old one. The hill people take their endurance and patience to a new landscape and slowly adapt to that city life. The city people come to the hills with a desire for quiet and space, and sometimes they too grow roots here. They learn to live by the seasons and measure time by the play of sunlight and shadow.

But there are others who come with their own sealed worlds, carrying the city with them. They build homes that look out on forests but never touch the soil. They live in comfort, but never truly belong. They remind me of saplings planted in their pots, roots confined to their own soil even when placed in new ground.

For me, replant disease is more than a horticultural challenge. It is a lesson in regeneration. Life thrives when it moves, when it dares to begin again, when it meets the unfamiliar and learns from it. The soil, like people, needs rest and renewal. It must open itself to difference to stay fertile.

When I walk through my orchard and see an old stump beside a young sapling, I often think of this. The older trees lean with memory, their roots tracing the stories of what once was. The new sapling reaches towards the same sky, yet lives a different life. In its own quiet way, it is nature’s way of teaching me about change, about migration, and about how all living things find new life when they let go of the old.

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