Beside Deer Lick Creek, I saw a hare bound across an iron footbridge and a giant tree that had snapped in two when it fell in the water. Pausing my walk, I stood on the bank to study the tree.
The distance between severed stump and trunk was not great, but the liquid space between the two jagged ends took my breath away with its beauty. How could the fallen, the broken be so beautiful?
I loved how the brook filled the void of disconnection and death, blessing an abyss with a measure of peace. The slow movement of water, the round stones on the creek bed, and the reflections that animated the skin of the creek, they all witnessed loss and grief with grace. They comforted me.
That tree died, but beauty didn’t die. It just changed. A whole tree, intact, thriving, with glossy leaves is beautiful. But a broken tree with only half of its body still rooted in a muddy bank is gorgeous too.
The shocking break is an opening for time, change, and water to move — not to take the pain away but to lovingly acknowledge its impact. The broken edges can breathe into that forgiving emptiness, exposing their ache to the kindness of night.
One reply on “The Broken Tree of Deer Lick Creek”
This is incredibly poignant and simple in its truth and beauty. I’m so sorry to hear about your dear friend Sean. Your ability to comfort is remarkable. I believe our physical bodies due but our energy remains. You are so talented in so many ways. And prolific. I’m proud of you dear cousin