A certain oak tree grew beside a small lake in a place far away, a long time ago. The certain tree was not of exceptional stature, nor of unusual symmetry. Its foliage was no more beautiful, nor its bark no more distinctive than the other oaks in the grove where it grew. Yet, I retain the memory of that certain oak tree because in our frequent encounters, I grew to know it intimately. It shared itself with me as a friend might, unconditionally and confidently. I returned often to that place where that certain oak tree grew, eagerly anticipating some new insight or perspective on the separate, but common experiences that we shared. During the course of a single set of seasons, that tree revealed to me the cycle of my own existence and more.
When I first saw that certain oak, it appeared to be reaching for the early summer’s sun. Its limbs were almost indistinguishable among its peers. Although it reached toward the endless summer sky, it offered much to all that lay below. It filtered the sun’s rays and redirected the driving rains of frequent afternoon thunderstorms. Its partial shade cooled the spikes of green and the wild flowers (that others might consider weeds) lying beneath its sturdy canopy. It offered security to countless squirrels that scampered nervously from branch to limb, displaying agility that would impress the greatest of aerialists. The oak did all of these things in an unassuming manner, giving its gifts without expectations and acknowledgement.
High among the oak’s smaller branches was cradled the temporary home of infant birds. Providing for the survival of these tiny, featherless creatures was another special gift of the oak’s enduring boughs and the subtle shelter of its gentle leaves. The contrast between the weakness of the hatchlings and the strength of their host was extreme and reminded me of the times during my own lifetime when I had been dependent and weak – as well as those other times when I had been strong and protective of others. It occurred to me that my certain oak, the hatchlings, and I share more than I had understood before encountering this special tree that stood beside a small lake in a now distant place, many years ago.
Summer was brief and the fall began to alter that certain oak that stood beside a small lake. The vivid green of late spring and early summer gave way to a multitude of brilliant hues of red, of yellow, of orange, and of mottled browns. The reflection of the oak in the still waters of the small lake revealed the beauty that accompanies autumn’s maturity. With the addition of a fringe of blue sky and puffs of white and gray, the oak and its reflected twin filled my senses with visual pleasures, another unassuming gift from that certain oak with whom I had bonded and from whom I was learning more about myself than I knew then.
The cold west wind, the even colder north wind both tore at the oak. Reluctantly, it began to release its beauty to the lake and the ground below. It appeared to cling to its leaves like precious memories. It had nurtured those memories and now refused to relinquish them, too precious to surrender. Finally, standing mostly naked in the days of late fall and early winter, that certain oak continued to defy the swirling winds and cold, driving rains. There remained those sturdy limbs, but only small clusters of grayish-brown leaves, a sad reminder of what had once been lovely, lush, and green; once a protective haven for small furry rodents secure in their endless scrambling; protective of those fragile hatchlings, now mature and long departed.
I share with my oak tree the bittersweet memories of the seasonal changes of my own brief interlude, my existence. I, too, attempt to cling to memories of the late spring and the early summer of my lifetime. I know that many of my memories have fallen from my mind, like leaves to the ground and lake below. I continue to cling desperately to my clusters of faded leaves, resisting the winds of longevity. That certain oak will regenerate in the early spring and gain new leaves, repeating the cycle of its seasons, unaware that I am far away, absent for many years. Although the oak can repeat its cycle, it will remain in my memory as it was in that single cycle of seasons. I will exist for only a single set of seasons, but still, I appreciate that certain oak that stands on the shore of a small lake for our brief, intimate encounter. It remains a precious memory, a valued friend in my now autumnal mind.
On this day, I wonder if I shall become a memory, an image in someone else’s mind – shall I be the oak – or shall I be forgotten like the leaves that fall … fragile leaves … fragile memories of me.