Skip to main content

Zoom Out: Bark, Tree, Forest

Talking to a caregiver the other day, she mentioned that she "hates Facebook because it's so fake." I've heard the same charge made about funerals and memorials.

I have a different point of view. Look closely at a tree; not very attractive if is has a big ole burl blemishing the appearance. What about broken branches from the last storm? And the gaping hole, former home of birds, current home for squirrels. What a flaw! N.ow that I think about it, it's not symmetrical. Hardly a perfect specimen with bugs burrowing into the bark and vermin running about, up and down the trunk. Yikes!

Now step away from that tree, see it with fresh eyes. You see it more generally; it's a tree, home to birds and squirrels, a food source for woodland creatures, a focal or backdrop for the nature photographer. Perhaps it gets harvested, becomes furniture or lumber to build a home. And that ugly burl? Goes to the craftsman to become stunning art. Maybe it falls to the woodsman's chainsaw to fuel the stove and warm the hearth or feed the bear as it decays on the forest floor.

Whether that tree is a loner or one in a community, it is important and worthy simply for being. It is worth honoring for what it is.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I Remember...

I remember catching fireflies,  putting them in a jar, as a girl of five. I picked pears off a tree that overhung an alleyway on my route home from school, then enjoyed the forbidden fruit. .I had a golden cat who chased a gray mouse through our living room sending my mother, 3-year old sister, and me screaming atop the sofa and chairs. We lived in a farmhouse and I watched Romper Room. A daddy longlegs skittered across my dirty kid legs as I teeter-tottered on a broken kitchen chair back. I played grocery store and laid out a bedroll for group nap time in preschool. We lived in an apartment attached to a bakery. My maternal grandparents visited and a photo was snapped. Grandma held Dawn and Grandpa held me. I held Grandpa's chin. Walking through the back of the flour-caked kitchen, I saw scrumptious pastries and colorful toys stuck in the cupcakes with my hungry kids eyes. We lived in a two-story apartment building next door to a large farmer's field.  That field was my...

Lashing Out

Fed up. Sick of hearing, "I'm sorry."  Apologies don't erase the pain you inflict on me. You pull my pubic hair. Your nitrile gloves pull the hair from my head. Not once in a while but day in and day out. You turn me in a manner that suits you rather than in a manner that doesn't stress my body. Why won't you use the pad and sheet to turn me as one unit? Instead, you allow my body to twist as you hold me one-handed. How good you are at your job. What part of "my muscles are dying" don't you understand?

Kate

I think about my friend, Kate Struby, who died from this horrible disease in 2013. She lived here at Bailey Boushay House before I did. I reached out to Kate online through FaceBook because I loved her photograph with her head thrown back in laughter. I also loved her posts. I guess I just loved her spirit. I got to finally meet her one month before she died. I happened to be at the University of Washington Medical Center for my quarterly appointment when I saw her FaceBook post. She was awake and in the medical ICU. She was a mere few floors down. I would not be stopped. Relativeor no, I would meet my FaceBook friend. Thank God I did. I rolled into the room to find a beautiful, ethere.al woman flanked by two friends. Although it was an impromtu visit, she said she knew me immediately.I was in awe of her with her fiery spirit despite the ravages of our shared disease. She, unable to lift even a finger, lifted my spirit.