Life by the Tree
From underneath the shade of an old oak tree, I scribble some notes in a spiral bound journal and pause to take in the fresh air and the irony. Here I am, shaded by this ancient tree and feeling thankful for its wide leaves on a surprisingly hot day. I wonder if the paper in my journal, the never-to-judge notebook that captures my rants and handwritten pep talks, is in any way related to this old tree. Probably not (or not too closely, anyway), but I contemplate its shade, the wholesome breaths I can take beneath it, and wonder how distant it is in relation to the tree that was pulped and pressed into my notebook. Hmm.
Enlisting my 4th grade journal writing skills, I decide to write a gratitude entry on trees. “5 reasons why I am thankful for trees are...” An obvious and superficial note about their beauty begins my list. Shade, too! An easy thing to be grateful for on a day like this. I’m humbled by their size and lifespan, and feel small and finite in their presence. Thanks for the reminder, wise tree!
I’m struck by their diversity. The Sequoia so wide I could drive though is quite the sight compared to the fig tree that’s covering my neighbor’s driveway in jam. Their leaves range from bright enough to camouflage a green mamba, to sports car red and manilla mango yellow. They’ve inspired skyscrapers with their size. Meanwhile, there are varieties not much taller than me.
Still, as vast in size, shade, and shape as they come, they are here with a common purpose: to live. They break through protective seeds, spread confident roots underground, and triumphantly burst through the soil. They reach for the sunshine and absorb its warm, fulfilling light. Trunks widen, limbs lengthen, and leaves sprawl out to cast shadier shadows. Then they die. Red leaves, evergreen, Sequoia and shrub, they stretch toward that far away sun a final time, and begin their transformation into the soil where they once took root. Different in many ways, but exactly the same in birth and in death.
What separates the California Cypress from the Japanese Cherry Blossom is considerably small when put beside their defining commonality. Birth under the same sun, but on a differently named section of land. Life under the same sun, but unique in design and beauty. Magnificent creatures they are in life, but more so in their inevitable, unifying death. The cypress and the blossom are not much different at all, come to think.
