It’s raining today.
The tree stands there.
The huge, lopsided evergreen tree stands tall outside my window.
I stare and gaze and am lost in a myriad of thoughts about this tree that is the always-green focal point of our back yard.
How does it feel to be a tree, doing nothing all day?
When we moved here, I had visions of this tree. It was perfectly-shaped. I made mental plans to put lights on it as soon as the darkness of the time change came upon us, a symbol of beauty and hope in the middle of the black and cold of winter.
But the stress of the move pushed the thought to the side and “naked as a jaybird” is the way the tree stayed.
One morning, I woke to the sound of crackling and crashing. An ice storm had come through in the middle of the night. Branches were sagging under the weight of the thick, sparkling crystals, many snapping and plunging to the ground.
This tree was no different, looking haggard and strong all at once, the watery frozen glaze enveloping every needle and branch.
I turned my back for a moment when I heard a snap, crackle and pop. A huge branch from an even-taller-and-more-mighty tree had come tumbling down, side-swiping and decimating some branches on this perfectly-formed tree.
I stood there, my heart breaking just a smidge for this tree and for me.
My silly, important plans, and hopes and dreams for this flawless evergreen.
Gone just like that.
Perfection wiped away in a flash.
It’s raining today.
The tree still stands there.
The huge, lopsided tree stands tall outside my window.
It does nothing all day. So it seems.
But is this the truth? No it’s not.
It’s drinking and growing and reminding and teaching.
Teaching wise truths to little old me.
Drinking deeply from the good soil, the soil of a Loving Gardener, gives me strength.
Growing doesn’t only happen when it’s sunshiny and happy, but also when it’s stormy and weighty.
I may be lopsided and have scars (even forever), but I am still full of life, both inside and out.
Perfection isn’t the key to beauty. Being myself is. Others can still play in my branches no matter what.
I don’t need “extra” twinkly lights to be a symbol of beauty and hope. I already am.
This tree. This tree outside my window.
She’s you and she’s me.