The Tree

           

           A special tree has fallen. I saw it on Sunday and felt a pang in my heart. The tree was like an old pal. To see it down and in the water was like seeing an elderly friend on the ground, sad and undignified.

            I discovered the river walk the first time I visited my husband in San Angelo. The locals directed me to it and I knew, as soon as I saw it, that it would be a place I would frequent and that my upcoming move to this town would be okay.

            The tree, stretching and reaching out over the river, welcomed me that day too. What a joy to discover it was inhabited by herons, at least four nests. I was mesmerized. I’d never been so close to these iconic birds.

            Herons have always symbolized something sacred to me, a spirit animal of sorts. To see so many up close and personal was a good omen. The tree became known in my mind as the nesting tree. It was a touchstone in my new life, in my new town, where I felt alone and unsure.

            The next nesting season something horrible happened. The tree died. The herons and their nests were gone. I felt somehow adrift until my eyes followed the tallest dead branch of the tree as it reached out over the river, as if pointing to the trees on the opposite bank, showing me where the new nests were.

            Now the nesting tree had become the pointing tree, still my touchstone. It was as if a neon sign had been erected on the riverbank, flashing “Herons this way!” Their new home is even grander than their original tree. A larger colony has taken up residence.

            On my morning walks the pointer tree has stopped me, has pulled me from my meditation or mindlessness every time I approach with a reminder to stop and watch the herons; to stop and “smell the roses.”

I’ve watched chicks pop their heads out of the nest waiting to be fed by mama and papa heron, I’ve seen fledgling flights, and watched the patience it takes to stalk one’s prey. All because the pointing tree was there showing me where to look.

Now it has fallen down, its root ball exposed in a most unbefitting manner, its branches mostly under water, yet still trying to reach across the river, still pointing toward the nesting herons, still reminding me to take a break from my ruminations and take in the beauty I’m in the midst of.

I’m not sure how long the fallen tree will remain. Perhaps it will be hauled off by park workers or moved by the current of the river. But for now it is there in its new role. Now it is the resting tree. I’ve seen cormorants stopping to watch for fish and turtles sunbathing. I’ll visit the tree for as long as it is there. I will rest beside it and look for what it will tell me in its final chapter. It is a dear old friend.