Just a few days ago, a dear friend of mine shared her joy after harvesting cherries from her 30-year-old tree. She didn’t pick from the top—only the lower branches her hands could reach—but that didn’t take away any of the delight. She watched the tree blossom richly this year, more than it had in recent memory. Nature, it seems, has its own perfect timing.
She chuckled as she told me how the birds had already taken their share—those cheeky little creatures always seem to know the ripest fruits before we do! But she didn’t mind. There was enough joy to go around, and the cherries tasted sweeter simply because they came from her very own tree, rooted in her backyard for three decades. That kind of connection with nature—year after year—is deeply grounding.
Her story stirred up a vivid memory of my own. It was about another tree—quite a different one—but just as memorable. A roadside tree in Scarborough, at the corner of Finch and Birchmount. I first met that tree about twenty years ago on a scorching summer day, much like today.
I had gone to meet Julie. I don’t remember what exactly the meeting was for—perhaps lunch or a simple catch-up—but I do remember the heat. The sun was relentless, and I looked around for shelter. That’s when I saw it: a tall, strong tree standing calmly by the sidewalk, casting its generous shadow over the pavement.
Gratefully, I stepped under its shade. The air beneath was instantly cooler, gentler. Out of habit or curiosity, I reached out and rested my hand on the trunk. It was warm and textured—rough, yet full of character. And then something remarkable happened.
As my palm lingered on the bark, a strange but comforting sensation stirred. It felt… alive. Not in the ordinary sense, but in a quiet, energetic way. A gentle pulse, a whisper of warmth, a movement that didn’t belong to the breeze. It was as if the tree responded, as if it acknowledged my presence.
I stood still, surprised by how profound it felt. In that moment, I thought: this tree is doing something amazing, just by being here. Rooted in one spot, year after year, it works tirelessly—absorbing carbon dioxide, giving out oxygen, providing shade and beauty to passersby like me. It asks for nothing. It expects no praise. And yet, it contributes so much to the life around it.
That brief encounter stayed with me all these years. Since then, every time I pass by that intersection, I look to see if the tree is still there. And it is—taller, stronger, older, just like all of us.
There’s something profoundly reassuring about trees. They grow silently, weather storms without complaint, and offer comfort to anyone who seeks it—whether it’s a friend plucking cherries or a man waiting for someone on a hot summer afternoon.
So next time you pass a tree, maybe pause for a moment. Touch its bark. Let your hand rest. Feel the quiet energy it shares so freely. You might just walk away a little more grounded, and a little more grateful.
No comments:
Post a Comment