Maples
Two Maples were growing in the yard. Both were full and grand; the approach to the house was so inviting. These trees were planted with love in just the right locations. Whoever took the time to place the young saplings in the ground did it with the purest of intentions.
When I was 8 my parents bought the most quaint country home; a little A-frame nestled in the woodland with a sprawling lawn before it. In front of my mother's "snow white," cottage grew the most magnificent Maple trees. These trees were not young nor were they old. They were at their peak of existence; beautiful and full-bodied; growing and changing with the seasons. My young mind was transformed. I had never seen trees so perfect and I was in love.
I was not the only one in love. These trees impressed all who took comfort in their shade. There was no better spot than a bench beneath one of these trees. Or if you were my brother, no place could compare to their highest boughs. He would climb without fear knowing their branches were always just where they needed to be. He never questioned their support nor did he ever doubt his abilities.
Seasons changed and years passed. The two Maples marked the march of time with their cycles of renewal and dormancy; with expanding trunks and longer boughs. Each became more magnificent with age. The sight of them was never taken for granted. They truly made this house a home.
Every season brought new appreciation. The pale green buds in the spring signaled the rebirth of the land. The thick lush foliage of the summer provided shelter for songbirds and sanctuary from the sun for humans and farm dogs alike. Then in autumn, the maples gave their all. Amazing color - gold and orange - standing out against the bluest of skies. Awe-inspiring! This was the time for gathering, family, sharing, and gratitude for nature's wonders. This time never lasted long enough and with the raking of the last leaves, winter set in. The trees stood bare in the cold winter air no less alive, just resting. But they still provided for all the hardy little birds who stayed for the cold. The lowest branches boasted feeders and suet cakes and soon the maples would be adorned with new colors - blue and gray, red and black - jays and juncos, cardinals and woodpeckers. How could there not be love -for every season a new attraction?
As the trees matured so did I. The three of us all loved this land we called home. Unlike the trees, I was free to roam: college and graduate school, travels and marriage, careers, and new homes. I moved on but was forever beckoned home by the trees. Until one day I came home to stay. But the Maples were not the same.
Two maples stood where they were lovingly planted, no longer book ends, but full of unique characters. They were now different heights and even their seasonal changes happened on individual schedules. How much they had changed since my youth! Time marches on whether or not we are there to experience it. Nonetheless, I felt blessed to be where I belonged and to share the wisdom of the trees with my children.
Three decades after first meeting the trees one of them could no longer thrive. The once full crown was becoming thin and bare, its branches weak and brittle. I, along with my family, lamented the loss of its vitality. We questioned specialists. We did the surgery. We wanted to save the tree. Why were we grasping so hard? For we knew the balance of our home would forever be changed by the loss of its grandeur. That side of the house would no longer be protected nor would gazing out those windows be enjoyable. But the tree had lived its life and we accepted the barren look of that half of the yard. We adjusted our perspective and continued to live; forever grateful for the decades of beauty and the warmth its wood now provided our home.
Adjusting to loss happens slowly over time. Just because we are saddened and thrown off balance, we must continue with our lives. As much as that empty spot in the yard pains me, I can still marvel at the other half. There is a Maple still growing in the yard and it is magnificent despite the ravages of time. Boughs have broken. The fungus has grown. Its crown has thinned. Portions have been removed. But the bench remains and the lone farm dog still lulls about beneath its shade. The uppermost branches are prime real estate for Orioles and feeders still adorn the lower branches. The tree still provides regardless of condition. I know that time is making its march. My children are growing and the maple is fading but we will relish this autumn for it may be our last.
This reflection on the Maples is timely. I am now in the in-between; experiencing life and death. My mother passed and my heart has healed, although forever scarred, just as the yard bears the remains of the felled Maple. Her memory still warms my heart and her spirit still blesses my house. But in the years since she passed my father, who has remained his quiet strong self never placing the burden of his loss on us, has changed. His boughs are breaking. He has slowly been ravaged from the inside. His cancer destroying his marrow as the invaders are destroying the tree's sapwood. Time is marching on and it seems to be picking up its pace, stomping as if it wants us to acknowledge it. Time is a concept we use to mark passages of our lives. It started before birth and continues after death. It cannot be stopped. It seems to move slower for the young and faster for the old, but as it keeps its beat our lives continue through the cycles of nature. We live in seasons- I in my late summer, my children in spring, and my dad in the cold stark winter. These seasons will come to an end and when they do all that will remain are memories to warm our hearts and wood to warm our homes.
