Here as everywhere

There is a huge beech tree in our yard that I felt held the guardian spirits of my parents and other loved ones who have died. I would finish my morning run by climbing its roots and wrapping my arms around it. Chest to trunk, I could actually feel our mutual hearts beating.

A couple of years ago, the tree was hit by lighting. A third of it came down. I could no longer hug the trunk, an open wound with a ragged ledge of char and splinters. I was bemoaning the random cruelty of my loss when my wise friend reframed it. What if the lightning strike liberated my beloved confined spirits into the greater universe? At first, it was a comforting thought, and over time, it felt right.

The tree still stands, but recent ice and wind snapped three more massive branches. Our tree guy told me the tree is dying, and we can let that happen slowly or take it down now. I asked what he would do. “That depends,” he said, “on how you feel about your neighbors. I suspect it’ll be their place it lands on.”

So, the tree is coming down next week. I know it’s the prudent call, but I’m sad. I love its scarred, noble presence in our yard. My routine has become to honor it with a look before turning to face the sky to connect with those I miss. Soon, the tree will join its former residents in radical liberation. Rather than clasping them close, I open to an understanding that love is not a totem, but everywhere, and unbounded.