The Rings We Carry
What endures after a life is gone
The city leaders determined, reluctantly, that the old man had to come down.
They said it softly, as if the tree might overhear them. As if he had not already weathered a century of storms and summers and the forgotten memories of those who once knew him best.
He stood feebly in the middle of the city park.
A silent sentinel with memories tracing back to the Awaswas people and the Pomo Indians whose children once danced beneath his branches. There had been songs in that shade once. Small hands touching his bark. Footsteps pattering over the earth fed by his fallen leaves.
But he was dying now.
The children who played beneath his bending branches and brittle leaves were at risk. The city attorney spoke of liability and negligence. Words that felt cold beside the warm presence of the old tree.
Some of the gnarled and twisted limbs were held up by huge wooden posts. Crutches for an old yet dignified man. A man full of stories. A man who provided home and sanctuary to squirrels, woodpeckers, owls, and other creatures. An avuncular gentleman whose summer shade lured children and lovers and daydreamers filling notebooks with poems and drawings.
For twenty-six years I passed the old gentleman as he stood sentry in the park, adjacent to city hall and the police department where I used to work. Time moved through my life, and it moved through his life too. Yet he remained rooted, calm, and steady.
When I was young on the job he was there. When I aged into my middle years he was still there. We grew old together in our own ways, though he had a long head start.
How many generations had he overseen. How many children had played among his fallen acorns and brittle bark. What stories and tragedies and lessons were hidden deep within his concentric rings. What quiet wisdom rested in the heartwood of a life lived in place and with patience.
The arborist’s report was clear.
He was dying and likely to fall before long. His crown was hollowing. His limbs were brittle. His roots were tired. And so phone calls were made. Workers assembled in the early morning light. With saws and shears they began dismantling him. Whittled away piece by piece until, in a final salute, his trunk was severed and it was all over.
Do trees know when their end is near. Do they feel the bite of the saw. Do their roots send out urgent signals. Final goodbyes. Tears of sap. The faint sense of an ending that only the oldest beings understand.
Days later I saw a lone squirrel at the edge of the grass. He was spying the stump, the only remaining vestige of the old man’s grandeur. It looked like the squirrel was paying his respects. Or maybe he was mourning. Maybe he was remembering the world as it once was.
The park is more open now.
Sunshine pours over the lawn and across the walking path. Kids have more space for football and games. Younger oak trees stand revealed, slender but ambitious. Aspirants of the old man’s stature, though still far from the wisdom he carried in silence.
Our lives are like oak trees.
Much like acorns, we come from humble origins. We too grow up in the sunshine, rain, and fresh air. Our skin ages as bark gnarls. Like the hidden rings inside a tree trunk, our minds build layers of memory and knowledge. Sometimes we need crutches and surgeons. Sometimes we stand tall. Sometimes we bend.
And when we stand no more, our lives are marked with tombstones. Just as the fallen oak’s life is marked by the remaining stump.
If the stump remains at all.
What are we to learn about life from an old oak tree. Maybe that we should strive to stand tall. Refuse to bend when life’s challenges and indignities are foisted upon us. Be more accepting of solitude, which invites quiet introspection and the pleasant recall of memories that soften the hours.
Perhaps we should extend our arms as loving branches for all who come into our meadow. Shed a few tears as the oak tree shed a few acorns. Breathe deeply like a canopy absorbing the breeze. Provide shelter for our family and shade against the slings and arrows of life’s inclement weather.
And when the younger oaks come into their own, we should bow out gracefully. Exit the meadow knowing that we did our best, spread some love, and shared some laughter.
Leave behind a good shadow while we can.
Before the old stump was ground down and completely removed, I saw children climbing on it and running circles around it. I felt a kind of ache, knowing they would never sit in the deep shade I once knew. They would never hear the leaves whisper above them on a warm afternoon. They would never look up into those immense branches and feel, for a moment, very small and very safe.
The long shadow of the old oak may be gone, but not the memory of him. Trees vanish, but the way they made us feel remains. Some giants leave stumps. Others leave stories.
This one leaves both.
Support my work
Weiss Journal is a free publication. If my writing brings you value or stays with you, please consider a one-time donation of any amount through the secure PayPal link below. Your support helps me keep the Journal going, and I am deeply grateful for it.
Subscribe to Weiss Journal here.
What a Wonderful Story, John. Trees have ALWAYS been Important to me, in my Life and my Artwork. Their Solidity & Strength have Always given me those qualities that I rely upon. Sounds like they are the same with You, since You Wrote This Story of one tree that meant ALOT to You. I Love Your photos of it as well.....Maybe, you Could get a Slab from it to make something for yourself.
Beautiful story.