The Maple

    There is an old maple tree in my front yard. It plays an important role in our household protecting the west facing side of our house from the harsh setting sun of August, without it the heat would be unbearable.  Every autumn our tree becomes a show stopper, the verdant leaves of it’s canopy, having shaded us all summer, suddenly change to a brilliant yellow as if to say; “Look at me!” They cling to the branches with an uncertain tenacity, until they finally let go and drift gently to the ground, only to be scattered by a cold autumn breeze. Then the tree is left standing there, exposed, barren, the scars on it’s grey cracked bark now obvious remnants of long lost branches. It’s branches once overflowing with life, now nude, bereft, left cold and shivering on the front lawn. But I am not worried for our tree because I have a certain perspective. I've seen the seasons come and go many, many times.  I know with certainty spring will come again, our tree will grow new leaves and I will stand beneath new shade.

    If I knew nothing of the seasons, if I did not know about the ebb and flow of the changing sunlight, if I did not know the short days of winter could be stretched into the long languid warmth of summer twilight, I might mistakenly fear my tree was dead and I might miss the beauty of it’s yellowing leaves, I might look to the future with remorse, I might long for the memory of a shady summer instead of the promise of a bright spring. I might not understand that bare branches and falling leaves were as much a part of the life of my tree as flowing sap and unfolding buds.  I might miss the beauty of ‘now’ over the worry of ‘then’ and that would be such a foolish mistake.