In the Fall of 2003 I bought my house where a small stick less than a foot high stuck out of the front yard. I was told it was an oak tree. (See the red arrow and red circle next to the garbage cans in the picture below? Yeah, I know you can’t see the stick, but that’s where it is.)
And the following summer, it remained a tiny stick, though it sprouted 3-4 leaves for the season. (If you look really hard, you can see it where the second arrow points.)
One of my neighbors, for the next several years would laugh at my stick.
Then one year, my little oak tree shot off like a rocket. Each year growing taller, and its branches broadly reaching outward. It started keeping its leaves through the winter, changing from green straight to brown. I’ve had beautiful bowed branches in the winter under the weight of snow.
Even in small dustings.
It always bypassed the beautiful colors of autumn. And I was always a little bit sad about that.
This year’s autumn, however, produced a new layer of beauty. Not vibrant red or golden yellow or fiery orange. No. But a beauty that reminds me of ones’ life journey, worn with aging through the challenges met yet the warm glow of life coursing through the veins.
I love my little oak tree.