The tree stands tall, majestic, reaching out to the skies… and hollow. In its grandeur and strength, it stands there… oddly empty. Like someone has scooped out its insides, carved its innards, brutally, angrily, leaving it open, its void exposed, cavernous where its insides once stood… gaping.
The thoughts that cross my mind may or may not be a result
of binge-watching Criminal Minds as a family. The soundness of that decision
and my good judgement I question with each episode. Sigh… but these are the
thoughts that grip my mind as I gaze at the tree, hundreds of years old - broken,
and yet whole.
I wonder how long it has been broken. I wonder what
happened. Could it be heart break, a gut wrenching pain, a tragedy… travesty,
despair, dashed dreams, lost love or friendship, unkindness… and other things
that leave us feeling hollow and gutless within. Things that allow us to
function, but nothing can ever completely fill the hole, the void, the
emptiness…
Things happen, shit happens… to most of us. How much it
corrodes our insides varies from person to person, to how sensitive we may be, to
the extent of the trauma, to how many different things we may have had to
endure in the past – small things, big things, piercing things, even the
slightest of things – there’s no knowing what will eat at our insides and to
what extent.
I touch its grizzly bark. Every wrinkle, every fold has a
story. What broke you, I ask the tree. What consumed your insides? Why you, and
not the one standing next to you? The wise wrinkled bark has all the answers, I
am certain. Yet, its hollow and brokenness will always be a mystery. I will
never know the story.
I move my gaze from the gaping hole to that which stands,
that which holds, that which allows the tree to be every bit the tree it is.
I hold my breath. The idea of “brokenness” has no place in
nature. It is only a narrative of what has happened, the life the tree has led,
and that which it continues to do so… in flourish. Nature is cruel, nature is
wise, nature has no room for pettiness, smallness or regret. It moves and
continues to move. That is all it knows to do. That is all this tree knows to
do.
I move my gaze from the empty to that which stands, that which
holds, that which allows the tree to be every bit the tree it is.
The parts that hold it are strong. The parts that hold the tree are unflinching. They have no time to miss their missing pieces. They do what they know to do and hold the tree and allow it to flourish and thrive, gaping holes notwithstanding. The branches widen above and reach to the skies - just as they were meant to. And that is all that matters. That is all that can ever matter.
