The Living Dead

On a canoe ride in Cootes Paradise this week, we stopped to enjoy a picnic under this tree. I love trees. I am drawn to them. They inspire me to explore deep thoughts and emotions. As we sat I was not surprised my mind turned as it did.

More interesting to me than the limbs that thrive, are the dead ones. The ones that still cling to the trunk, some longer than others, evidence of the time and energy invested in their growth before their lives were terminated.

Even though they are dead, as the limbs age, rot, then are torn away from the trunk by a gust of wind or under the weight of winter ice, even then, the tree long thought to have dealt with the loss of life will find itself healing anew. Ten, twenty or fifty years from now the wound from the loss will never heal so fully that one who sits under it won't be able to see where the tree has been wounded.

Still, the tree grows majestically. It reaches it's thriving limbs out across the water. It drinks deeply. It provides oxygen, shade, food, shelter for wild life as well as for the pair of us looking for a place to catch our breath; feed our bodies; renew our spirits.

As my thoughts continue on to myself, I consider the number of ideas, dreams, and relationships that had to die in order for me to grow. Like the tree, the remnants of my abandoned things either cling to or have wounded me. I wonder how much easier life would be if my wounds and yours were worn externally or at least openly.

When we climb back into the canoe, I rest my hand on the tree, feel its strength. I glance back at the tangled bare limbs, thank them for their nakedness. In the moment we push off from shore I am deeply grateful for the beauty, for the truth. I look at all the places the tree tried to grow; tried and succeeded for some time before failing.

I see life. I see me. I see you too.