There’s an oak tree I visit whenever I can just down the street. I’ve seen few trees as large or as beautiful. Its epic size is what initially stopped me. The stout trunk. The branches larger than the trunks of other trees. It’s graceful arching pattern amongst the clutter of understory and rangy white pine. Being in the presence of this tree – a survivor – an old soul – is humbling and soothing. I feel its stories just sitting nearby.
I got to looking at the tree the other day. It was after I had had a talk about perfection with a friend of mine. We did not resolve anything, only acknowledging our own attempts to achieve, to capture this illusory state that exists in the way we see ourselves. Here in front of me with this tree was the story of its life. Scars, growths, bubbles, rot, healing. I looked at the dead wood still on the tree with the thick layers of scar tissue around it and was moved by the persistence of life, and the movement toward healing that is present in the world. It’s very powerful. I followed the edges of different scars on the tree wondering about the events that left their mark, and found swirly grains amongst the straight ones I normally associate with oaks. As I sat with this tree, I understood that my attachment to this tree manifests on many levels. One of those levels, which is a meditation for myself, is that scars, rot and gnarled swirls are evidence of a full life that when worn as they are is beautiful, strong and poetic – because it’s honest and true.
