The tree of life

I wonder every time I pass by here what kind of stories this tree would tell if it could talk. At any given time there are people gathered under the tree. A family comes to have professional pictures done. Students meet to study and listen to music. Children play, dogs run, and squirrels hide in and around this tree.

As a young child I passed by this tree on my way to church, or to my grandparents house. As a college student I lived in the dorm situated behind the building you see in the pictures above. As a parent, I too have thought of trying to capture a family portrait with this tree.

As I stopped to photograph the tree one night after baseball, I wondered about the thunderstorms the tree has weathered. The thousands of feet of snow its been buried under. The ice thats draped it, the fog thats surrounded it, the lightning that has singed it... the tales the tree has heard. The confessions, the tree has sheltered. The secrets its been told, the marriage proposals that have been uttered underneath its branches. The tears and the sorrow that have soaked the tree.

I noticed how gracefully the branches have bent over time, bowing to the ground as an invitation to young and old alike to easily step up into the tree. The low trunks are sturdy, steady and allow for one to traverse over large portions of the tree.

That tree has a legacy. Its an iconic landmark to so many. While the landscape changes and people come and go, the tree is a constant. Big in its glory and rich in its tradition and history. As I left the tree, I looked back over my shoulder and witnessed the sun, low on the horizon, casting one last glorious ray of light over the tree. I walked away, satisfied with my time at the tree.



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I was working on this post Saturday. Dakota in her last few weeks had turned into such a mommies girl. With her at my feet I worked away on editing these photos on a gloomy day. But Nolan was out of sorts. He woke up irritable, moody. Nothing, no one, agreed with him. His friends were gone, it was raining outside and his mood matched the dark clouds in the sky. He wore on our nerves, battled his brother and even set up the tent in the yard for awhile, in an effort to "run away."

I have always said he is an emotional barometer for the workings of our family. In hindsight, I see he may have felt the shifting of the ordering of the universe, long before we did. We made our way through the day on Saturday, hoping that sleep would be the salve he needed to restore and refresh him.

We woke to sunshine on Sunday, and a slow-moving Dakota. She has been on steroids for an autoimmune disorder. She'd been showing signs of restored health, although we all felt uncertain of just how many more weeks/months our 12 year old may have left.

I've heard so many say "They can go so fast." They can. Although as a testament to her spunk and spirit she tried so hard on Sunday. But all too quickly, slow moving, became unable to walk. She stopped eating and refused water. And yet, as weak as she was, from both vomiting and diarrhea, she made it to the door to go outside, every single time.

I'm not sure when she left us that day. Rick was in and out trying to meet a deadline for work. The boys were at the neighbors who kindly kept them for the afternoon. But as the day wore on, her eyes grew more vacant. Her breathing became labored as my heart shattered. By the time we got her to the vet, we knew she wouldn't be coming home with us. He affirmed what we had surmised. But suffice to say, our Dakota as we knew and loved her, had begun to move on.

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Its harder than I could have imagined. Its so damn quiet I can hardly take it at times. And she remains everywhere in this house. Her fur in the lint trap of the dryer I went to empty. Her toys strewn about downstairs. Her rope, abandoned across the peeling boards of the deck. And the absence of barking when the doorbell rings, or when someone walks past the house.

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This much I know is true. Its the cliches I repeat to myself in a mantra... she's in a better place, better place, better place. We'll all be with her one day again. She is no longer hurting. She lived a good, no, great, life.

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Our summer has returned. The sunshine and the heat are in full force. There is talk of the 90's. Dakota and I shared our love for the sun. She'd lay on the deck beside me and bake until her sides heaved with panting when she could no longer take it. I can't help but feel this blue sky and sunny day is a last little gift she's left me with. A smile from heaven, as life goes on.