Deep are the roots in my heart
In my home of thirty-plus years in Sebastopol, CA, there grew a giant sycamore tree. When I first arrived, the tree was just a small sapling, and as it grew, so did my life.
There was a branch for each of my children reaching out from the trunk. Strong and resilient, those branches grew and sprouted smaller branches that represented their lives. A branch for Heidi’s horseback riding adventures, a branch for Breena’s gymnastics endeavors. From branch to twig to leaf, the tree represented every day of those years of our lives.
The tree stood watch as we painted and renovated the house. Circa July 2015.
I often stood with my back to the base of the tree and let the energy flow through me from roots to trunk to branches. If I needed support, the tree gave. If I was full of joy, the tree lifted that spirit into its canopy and sent it skyward in grateful celebration to the Lord for his blessings.
When I was troubled, the tree offered me comfort and release, providing an avenue upward toward heaven. The tree wasn’t only a symbol of my life; it was my good friend. It stood like a sentinel welcoming me home on even the darkest of nights. Through the storms of life and the celebrations, that sycamore saw it all.
Planted too close to the house, the roots of the tree put pressure on the foundation. The tree had to be removed once the significant concrete cracking and siding bulging became impossible to overlook.
After much thought and deliberation, there came the day. The crew arrived, and with a heavy heart, I watched from the window. I prayed for the tree and begged her for forgiveness. I honored the tree and thanked it for the years of shade. Coming home to roost deep in my heart, were feeling how much that tree had meant to me. I thanked the tree for its service and all it had provided.
When branch by branch the tree came down, I felt the saw blade as if it was taking off my own arms and then my legs. Cut into chunks, the tree lay scattered about the backyard in pieces and I cried at the sight.
Not catching my sentiments, Winnie thought the tree made for fun obstacles upon which to play.
Within my heart, the heaviness eased when Kate, a local woodworker artist, came to collect the rounds.
Kate intended to forge from those pieces as many sculptures as she could. To her, the tree still held so much value. People prized and coveted the sycamore for the beauty of its grains and rings.
Kate shares her art. The natural beauty of the wood coupled with her craftsmanship provides stunning results.
From art pieces to hang on walls, to rolling pins and kitchen utensils, Kate put her skill and creativity to work. Napkin holders and vases. Salad bowls and cutting boards. My tree was to live on.
One of the many pieces Kate created. This bowl is truly a work of art. Circa December 2024.
About two months after the takedown of my best friend, Kate presented a large bowl she had crafted from one of the large chunks that had formed the intersection between trunk and branch. The bowl remains in my possession, and I have since discovered other trees in my new neighborhood whose trunks will offer support and solace.
Now I have a carrotwood tree, freshly planted in our new backyard in which to grow the next thirty years of my life. She is a beautiful representation of what will become a stately presence. At fifteen feet high, her canopy is already over eight feet wide. She stands watch, the centerpiece of our landscaping, ready to provide shade and shelter and comfort. She is right outside my bedroom window. The first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see at night.
Her branches, twigs, and leaves capture my thoughts and prayers. She awaits the recording of the next thirty years of my life. ❤️
