Through every window in my house, whichever way we look, we see big, beautiful trees. There's a white oak, a black oak, a red oak, a few hickory, two Japanese maples, a smattering of tulip poplars, two pines, and one lonely dogwood. Excluding the maples and the dogwood, every tree is over 80 feet tall. These trees are old.
They were here when my kids were born...when I was born...when my father was born.
Beneath the bark, year after year, they grow new rings, dispassionate about the noise of everyday life.
While we scurry about our busy days, bouncing between the guardrails of ambition and apathy, the old trees stand watch.
But when we pause and gaze skyward into the canopy, we bear witness to the majestic disarray of steady, unstoppable progress. Each branch tip represents a commitment to the upward movement of the whole. We see them sway gently to the west as harsh winds blow in and then release to the east as the winds blow out. Graceful, humble, and unemotional.
These trees are old. They've seen everything there is to see. And despite all the hopes, dreams, fears, and atrocities inhabiting humankind, here they still stand. They made it this far, and they're going to keep going. And if I ever need a reminder when things become too bleak, I need only look up.