I am an oak, and that means I have time on my side. All of the other trees are grey and bare now, but that is to be expected. If you live fast and furiously, you die fast and furiously. Every year. But I take my time. In the spring, when everyone else is green and bouncy, I stay bare. Crouched in the forest like a panther, I bide my time. But I can do that because I am an oak, and I have time on my side.
 |
| Oak leaf. |
How they flaunt themselves in the spring, those other
trees! Such foolishness. Each competes with the other. “Look at me!
Look at me!” They sway this way
and that, painfully bursting forth in their enthusiasm, not caring about the
threatening grey clouds that circle far above.
But me? I stay silent and
immobile, like a ghost on the attic stairs.
I remain invisible because I know the choice is up to me. I have autonomy and integrity, but that is
because I am an oak. I do not expect
them to understand.
And then as they sweat their heady fragrance into the
forest (and while their backs are turned), I very silently awaken again. No one is looking because they are
self-absorbed in their own beauty (and admittedly, they are beautiful). Except perhaps an old woman here and
there. She will look knowingly into the
forest and say, “Ah, the oaks have returned.
It is time to prepare the soil beds for planting.” But no one listens to an old woman or a mute old
oak tree. That is a good thing. It allows for quiet, uninterrupted intentions
to be sown.
Summer sees lushness and bounty for us all. There is much joyous talk in the forest,
often full of laughter and frivolity. I
enjoy the dulcet tones, but they sing is as if they think they will live
forever. Or perhaps they have forgotten
the dark sleep. It is just as well. I send my roots far, far down into the Earth,
much farther than my frivolous companions because they are too busy
chatting. Only I can pull up the rare
and vital minerals so necessary to lush growth.
Only I can distribute them to the rest of the forest denizens through my
gift of leaves at the end.
At the end. It
comes so quickly. At first there is
joyous revelry and ballroom gowns of stunning color, and it seems as if the
band will play forever. But the winds
know differently. They usher in the grey
clouds, which have been silently waiting all this time, and then the screaming
and tearing and wailing begins. I close
my ears to it. When the last tear has
been shed and the ground is littered with shredded rags of once-magnificent
colors, I awake from a long nap.
All else is on its way to a monotone shade of grey. Except for me. I slowly shimmer into a red tone, and the
wind—try though it may—cannot take my leaves away. Those I shed at my own will in my own time,
and not a moment sooner. Nothing can be
taken from me without my permission. My
leaves are a gift I give to the others, but they do not know it because now
they are asleep.
Colorless, grey, and drab. Now it is their
turn to be the ghost. My strong,
unbreakable exterior looms in the forest now, and all others pale in
comparison. My arms reach outward
sideways instead of straight upward as the others do. All the animals instinctively know they can
find shelter under my boughs. While the
others creak and moan and crack in the howling frozen winds, I stand tall and
motionless. I am not afraid.
But that is because I am an oak. I am the King of the woods, and my dignity is
unquestioned and unparalleled. I will
stand here for 1,000 years, watching the others come and go, and come and go
again into the dust. I will reach deep
into the Earth for her hidden secrets, and I will pull power from the Sun in a
way no other tree can do. This is the
job of the King. It is a slow and
imperceptible task I must do, which task I agreed to in the very
beginning. It is long, slow work, but I
do not mind. It is the way of the oak,
and I have time on my side.
