I was at the park today, and this hoary old tree caught my attention. It’s at least three
hundred years old, middle aged, (or just passed it), for a Live Oak which this was one.
I started to think of the life in a tree. The heartbeat of a tree is long, taking a year
between each beat. When this Oak was just a young twig, America wasn’t America yet, …
still to come was the Revolutionary war, the invention of electricity, automobiles and
computers. Man had not walked on the moon, countless children had not been born, lived
and died, and the only company this tree had at the time was one great forest stretching
from southern Florida to New England and beyond. Now it sits at the edge of a lake for the
enjoyment of all who pass, … timeless and solid and not even aware of the history it’s seen
and the events that have spun out around it.

When I think of the life of this tree, my own pitiful existence seems as simple and
unimportant as a tuft of fluff passing on the breeze.


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